


Cold Soul (I Want It Back)

by Kayliana



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A twist on the slavery trope, Angst with a Happy Ending, Azkaban, Bottom Harry Potter, Bottom Tom Riddle, Codependency, Complicated Relationships, Consent Issues, Crack Treated Seriously, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fuck Or Die, Gratuitously Hot Voldemort, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Horcruxes, I feel like this qualifies as Crack Treated Seriously??? yeah fuck it, M/M, Magical Bond, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Obsession, Obsessive Harry Potter, Obsessive Harry Potter yes I'm tagging it twice, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Slave Tom Riddle, Slavery, Switch Harry Potter, The opposite of a slow burn, This messes heavily with consent, Top Harry Potter, Top Tom Riddle, Touch-Starved Harry Potter, but also angst and smut and fluff and feels, eventually they'll switch though, frank discussions about rape and consent, technically non-con with Tom & Harry only because as a slave Tom can't legally consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayliana/pseuds/Kayliana
Summary: All was not well.Voldemort survived the final battle and was imprisoned in Azkaban, bound with a magic-restraining collar. Meanwhile, Harry's magic gradually became destabilized by the loss of the Horcrux.Three months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry visited his nemesis with the intention of getting the Horcrux back, but he ended up getting much more than he bargained for--namely, the former Dark Lord magically bound as his slave.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 204
Kudos: 503





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VoidRealmer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidRealmer/gifts).



> This fic has some darker themes than my usual fare, but there's still plenty of fluff and humor (and of course my old standby of crack-treated-seriously).
> 
> Title was inspired by the song “Cold Soul” by Angie Mattson. There’s another song called “Cold Soul” by Trevor Moran (who is now Trevi Moran, but her music is still listed under her old name) which I found while failing to find the first one on Spotify, and it's also a great Harrymort song although it doesn’t quite fit the tone of this fic.
> 
> WARNINGS: consent issues, mentions of past attempted sexual assault, frank discussions about rape and consent, slavery, technically non-con (Harry is never going to force Tom into sex but since Tom becomes his slave and can’t legally consent, all sex between them is technically non-con). Also there’s an onscreen animal death (of a certain rat—LOL spoiler).
> 
> Some slight changes to canon: for the purposes of this fic, Wormtail survived book 7, and Voldemort survived the final battle—he cast something other than Avada Kedavra and when it rebounded and hit him, it incapacitated him instead of killing him; Harry refused to kill him in cold blood, so Voldemort was fitted with a magic-restricting collar and put in Azkaban.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy :)

All was not well after the defeat of Lord Voldemort. The Ministry and the newspapers claimed otherwise of course, all too eager to consider Voldemort’s defeat permanent and absolute, and to assume that he would follow suit with Grindelwald and live out his days as a prisoner, isolated from the world with his magic bound, a shadow of the nightmare he used to be. But all was not well—Harry Potter, most especially, was not well.

Human beings were not meant to be Horcruxes—but even more than that, they weren’t supposed to stop being a Horcrux after hosting another soul for several years. Harry was losing sleep over vague nightmares from which he awoke gasping and feeling so goddamn hollow, reaching up for his empty scar and wishing that it would come alive again. As fucked up as it was, he missed the way his scar used to hurt. He missed the Horcrux. If he was being completely honest with himself—which he occasionally managed during those lonely post-nightmare moments—he missed his connection with Voldemort.

His magic missed the Horcrux too, it seemed, since it was more difficult to control than it had ever been, and he was having bouts of accidental magic far more often than he ever had as a child. It was embarrassing, and it was worrisome, and it was entirely his own secret right now. He’d been unwilling to burden Hermione and Ron with something he knew would worry them and make them feel obligated to help him fix it. But there was only one way to truly fix it, and it was something his friends would never let him do—it was something he would never let himself do, despite having tracked down every book in existence on the process. It was completely insane…so, naturally, it only took him three months to cave. Three sleepless, hollow months of feeling like a ghost of himself.

Harry apparated just outside the gates of Azkaban, one hand clutching his wand inside his right robe pocket. His left pocket was occupied by a warm, motionless weight that seemed to burn into his skin through his clothing—but that burning was probably just the guilt.

There weren’t many Dementors left at Azkaban these days, which Harry was grateful for. He would have to pass a few of them, inevitably, but at least there were no swarms of them blotting the light from the sky anymore.

He swallowed as the guard in charge of the visitors’ apparition point approached him. The man didn’t seem to be much older than Harry and he looked bored, and Harry tried to calm his nerves by counting down until the guard realized exactly who was in front of him. Three…two…one…

“Mister Potter!” The guard exclaimed, looking starstruck. “Wow—how can I help you, sir?”

Harry forced a smile, then said, “I’m here to visit a prisoner.”

The guard frowned and asked, “Which one?”

“Who do you think?”

The guard paled, then stammered, “Not—surely not Him, Mister Potter?”

“Am I not allowed?” Harry asked calmly, raising an eyebrow and trying to channel some of the coolness and superiority that Snape had always seemed to exude. Harry never would’ve thought he’d end up thinking of Snape as a role model, but after seeing his memories and learning the truth about the man, Harry found it difficult not to.

“Well, he’s not officially allowed visitors,” the guard said reluctantly, seeming terrified of disappointing Harry Potter.

Harry gave him an unimpressed look and asked, “And unofficially?”

The guard swallowed and said, “I’ll have to ask the warden.”

“Do that, then,” Harry said.

The guard nodded, then closed his eyes and conjured a Patronus, a songbird of some sort, which flew off towards one of the ground floor windows of the prison. Then he cleared his throat and awkwardly said, “It’ll just be a moment.”

Harry nodded and crossed his arms.

It took more than a moment. It took several cold and uncomfortable minutes, and Harry was fighting the urge to shiver—he didn’t quite dare to use a warming charm in front of this guard, since half the time his spells tended to either go wild or come out overpowered these days, and neither result would be helpful right now.

Finally an answering Patronus—a particularly grumpy looking bulldog—swept towards them and told the guard to bring Harry into the Warden’s office.

Harry followed the guard inside and only flinched a little bit when the heavy door slammed shut behind them. 

The warden’s office was close to the main doors, in the same wing as a waiting room area that seemed cold and uninviting. The warden himself vaguely reminded Harry a bit of Uncle Vernon—not nearly as enormous, but with the same aura of superiority and reigned-in malice, and a horrible moustache. He made a shooing motion with his hand and the guard fled the room, leaving Harry alone with the warden, whose badge read D. Hayden.

“Harry Potter,” the warden said, making it sound like an accusation.

“Yes sir,” Harry said.

“You-Know-Who isn’t allowed visitors. Surely you knew that?”

Harry, hating himself a little bit, straightened his posture and tried to muster up some of that arrogance Snape had always accused him of. “Surely you can make an exception for the Savior of the Wizarding World,” he said, using the Daily Prophet’s new favorite title for him.

The warden let out a little snort of amused disdain, then bluntly asked, “What do you want with him? It’s going to be a lot of nasty paperwork for me if you decide to finish him off now while he’s in my custody.”

Harry blinked. “I’m not going to kill him—I thought I made that pretty clear the day I defeated him.” The warden gave him a dubious look and remained silent. Harry added, “There are things I want to ask him. Things I want to say to him. And I would appreciate as much privacy as you can allow.”

If anything, the warden looked even more dubious. He stared at Harry for a long, silent moment, but then he said, “I’ll give you half an hour—but there are rules.”

Harry nodded, trying to keep his face blank and restrain the sudden rush of glee he’d felt.

The warden continued, “He has a magic-restricting collar around his neck—do not try to remove it. That’s non-negotiable.”

“Of course,” Harry said mildly.

“You can take your wand in, since the collar blocks him from using it even if he got ahold of it,” the warden said, lowering his voice a bit, “but you should know that the collar also reduces and sometimes completely blocks the effects of most spells cast directly on him. If you need to…discipline him…you’ll have to do it the Muggle way,” he said conspiratorially, raising one hand and clenching it into a fist to illustrate his point. Harry swallowed uncomfortably, realizing that his intuitive comparison of this man to Vernon Dursley had been spot-on. “Just try not to do any permanent damage—it’s terrible PR if word gets out, and it always riles up the bleeding hearts and the politicians.”

Harry blinked a few times, then frowned and said, “Right,” not bothering to correct the man’s assumption that Harry was there to torture Voldemort, since the warden seemed disturbingly into it. He didn’t care at this point what misconceptions got him his visit as long as he got in.

The warden looked off to the side, then licked his lips while seeming to decide what to say next. Harry waited politely, and the warden finally said, “You probably haven’t heard, since we didn’t exactly announce it—but he looks different now.” The warden paused, and Harry raised an interested eyebrow. “Something happened a few weeks ago—no one can explain it, but he doesn’t look like a bloody snake monster anymore.”

Harry’s eyebrows went up, and he asked, “What does he look like now?”

The warden smiled, but there was no warmth to it—it was an oily nasty smile that made Harry feel like he needed a shower to wash it off of him. “You’ll see for yourself. Just—if you change your mind about how you want to spend your visit, I wouldn’t mind…supervising. The last one who tried him alone ended up missing some important parts,” he added with a grimace.

Harry wasn’t quite following, but he forced a tight smile and said, “Of course.” 

The warden looked at Harry for another silent moment, seeming to evaluate him. Then he clapped his hands together and stood from his chair, walking around the desk towards Harry. “Come along then. I’m required to search you before allowing you in.”

“Yes sir,” Harry said, standing still while the warden cast a round of detection spells on him. When one of the spells sparked a flare of red light by Harry’s left robe pocket, the warden’s eyebrows went up.

“Mind turning out that pocket?”

Harry shrugged, though his heartbeat had picked up—if this went wrong… But when he pulled the unconscious rat out by its tail and held it up for the warden to see, the man just cringed and said, “There’s already bloody rats all over the place here—we don’t need more of the buggers.”

“Well,” Harry said as casually as he could manage, “you know, snakes eat rats. I thought it’d be funny to bring old Snake-face a snack.” Harry shrugged, “Like you said, I didn’t know he looked different.”

The warden seemed slightly dubious, but also like he really didn’t want to ask why else Harry would’ve brought it. “Just don’t let it loose in here,” he said gruffly.

Harry nodded, then put the rat back into his pocket, inwardly letting out a huge sigh of relief.

The warden headed for the door and motioned for Harry to follow. They left the office and followed a confusing, twisting path through narrow hallways of dark stone. Harry suspected that the warden had gone in circles deliberately once or twice—perhaps it was policy to keep visitors from remembering the way out in case they tried to stage a break-out or something. Constant vigilance, and all that.

Finally, after descending a dizzying spiral of stairs, they arrived in a dungeon.

“There’s a visiting room upstairs for the regular ones,” the warden said, breaking the silence that he seemed uncomfortable with. “But this one’s kept far away from anybody he might manipulate—private dungeon, private floor. Private visiting room too, but the only use it’s had until today was to get him out of the way while we did the routine cell searches.”

The warden nodded towards a particular door next to a charmed pane of what looked like the one-way glass the Muggle police used in interrogation rooms.

Harry approached the window and then sucked in a gasp when he looked through the charmed, tinted glass. Instead of the pale and snakelike man who haunted his nightmares, Harry was looking at an older but still unfairly handsome Tom Riddle, who looked to be 30 something at the most.

The warden let out a dark chuckle, then pointed and said, “His hands are bound and chained to the table, and he’s only got about two feet of slack. But like I said, he bites.”

“Right,” Harry said automatically. “Erm—I had hoped for something a bit more private—”

The warden crossed his arms and gave him a look that managed to be chastising and a bit leering at the same time. It made Harry even more uncomfortable than he already was. “Unless you’ve decided that you want a second set of hands, so to speak, I’ll either be watching or listening. You can decide which one, but I’m not letting the Chosen One in there without some kind of monitoring. They’d toss me to the Dementors if something happened to you.”

Harry looked down at the ground, considering the choice. Finally deciding that it would be best to be able to speak freely, he said, “You can watch.”

The warden smiled, then said, “Good choice.”

Harry ignored that, and asked, “So you won’t interfere with any silencing spells I cast?”

“No, but if you try to block my visual, I will haul you out of there in a heartbeat. Understood?”

“Of course.”

“Well,” the warden said, giving Harry another of those creepy smiles. “Have fun.”

Harry swallowed, looked away, and let himself through the door into the visiting room. Much like the Muggle interrogation rooms on the telly, the room was bare except for a table with two chairs affixed to the floor on either side of it.

Voldemort didn’t look up at first…a power play of some sort, Harry assumed—a grasp for just a small amount of control over the situation. Harry didn’t mind, to be honest—he appreciated having an extra few seconds to gather his wits.

He pulled out his wand and cast “Muffliato,” extending the spell to cover the entirety of the small room.

Voldemort finally looked up at that, with some kind of witty sarcastic comment primed on his lips—but when he saw who his visitor was, he blinked and remained silent, tilting his head slightly to stare curiously at Harry.

“Er—hello,” Harry said awkwardly. He immediately wanted to smack himself for sounding like a stammering bumbling child—that certainly wasn’t how he wanted or needed to present himself today.

“’Hello’? Really?” Voldemort asked, raising a critical eyebrow at him and not bothering to hide the amusement and disdain in his tone. “That’s what you choose to say to me after everything? How cathartic,” he added sarcastically. “What a weight that must’ve taken off your shoulders.”

Inexplicably, Harry found himself smirking at the man instead of losing his temper. “Oh yeah, definitely. I feel loads better now,” he said, playing along as he stepped towards the table, “years of trauma just wiped right out.” Voldemort tensed slightly at Harry’s approach, but he kept his eyes (still an unnatural dark red, Harry noticed) locked warily on Harry and kept his expression seemingly calm and impassive. Harry sat down in the empty chair across from Voldemort, boldly meeting his stare. The air around his face seemed to shift and buzz slightly, and Harry blurted out as he realized it, “You’re wearing a glamour.”

“Yes, of course. Must look my best for the Chosen One.”

“They told me you couldn’t do magic with that collar on.”

“I didn’t cast the glamour,” Voldemort said tersely. “If I had, it wouldn’t be shoddy enough for you to notice its presence.”

Harry frowned, then boldly took out his wand and cast, “Finite,” then gasped when the glamour faded to reveal the same face but with a black eye, purpling bruises on both cheeks, a split lip, and a few scratches down one side of his face and neck. “What the hell happened?” Harry asked, despite knowing logically that either the warden or one of the guards had done this.

Voldemort scoffed and ignored the question, saying instead, “I suppose it makes a sick sort of sense that they would send you this time…The boy who defeated me, back to do it again.” He paused, then leaned forward slightly and asked viciously, “Are you here to break me in for the rest of them? I promise I won’t make it easy for you.” He twitched his hands to deliberately rattle the chain that secured his wrists to a metal ring built into the table, startling Harry as intended.

Harry’s heart had started beating faster when the loud clank of the chain startled him, and he closed his eyes for a second to regain his composure. “No, I’m here—” Harry started, with his eyes still closed but Voldemort interrupted.

“Look at me when you speak to me,” he snapped, and Harry’s eyes flew open in response. “It’s the very least amount of courtesy you could spare, considering what you’re here for.”

Harry frowned and said, “I’m not here to hurt you, all right? The warden thought the same thing, but that’s not it.” Voldemort huffed a disbelieving laugh, and Harry lost his temper just a little and he snapped, “I’m here because I want it back.”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow at him.

“The Horcrux,” Harry clarified, tensing when Voldemort’s expression shifted into a terse and deliberate blankness. 

Voldemort flicked his eyes towards the one-way glass and then said airily, “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Harry resisted the urge to glance towards the window himself, and instead he said pointedly, “We can speak freely—the warden’s watching but he’s not listening. He said he wouldn’t interfere with my privacy spells.”

“How naïve of you to believe that,” Voldemort said with a sneer that looked very out of place on Tom Riddle’s handsome face.

Harry ignored the jibe and said, “Did you not hear me? I want it back,” he repeated.

Voldemort’s expression tightened and he glared at Harry and snapped, “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have so callously thrown it away when you had it.”

Harry flinched back slightly from the raw fury in Voldemort’s eyes, but he said, “I know—I know that now. I feel hollow all the time and my magic is flaring up randomly and it’s harder to control all of a sudden—I need it back.”

Voldemort met his stare directly, then said quietly, “You do realize what you’re asking me, Harry, and what it would involve?”

Harry nodded and said, “I want you to make me your Horcrux again.” He reached into his left pocket, pulled out the unconscious rat, and set it down in the center of the table. He wasn’t sure whether or not he should be proud that his hand only shook a little bit.

Voldemort stared at the rat for a moment before commenting faux-casually, “It has a silver paw.”

“Yes it does,” Harry said. He prodded Wormtail with one finger, nudging the unconscious rat closer to Voldemort. “Will it be enough, if he’s like this?”

“You’re asking whether it’ll count as murder if I kill him while he’s a rat?” Voldemort said, looking amused.

“Yeah, that,” Harry said uncomfortably.

“Yes. It’ll count. And as long as the—intended vessel,” he paused to look Harry up and down, “has been prepared ahead of time,” he paused again and raised a questioning eyebrow, to which Harry nodded. Voldemort smiled slightly and continued, “I wouldn’t even need the use of my magic—just a few drops of my blood and contact with the vessel to place the soul shard inside.”

Harry swallowed nervously, then said, “All right, good.” He cleared his throat and said, “The warden only promised me thirty minutes, so we should—”

“I haven’t agreed, Harry.”

Harry gaped for a second, then said, “Why wouldn’t you? You’ll get a Horcrux back, be immortal again.”

“Immortality, in this place, would be a curse,” he replied quietly, a trace of exhaustion and something like defeat betraying itself in his voice.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up, and he said, “I can’t break you out of Azkaban—I’d get thrown in here myself for trying.”

Voldemort met his eyes and gave him a long, serious, searching look before he seemed to come to a decision and spoke again. “I’m not asking you to break me out, but I do have one non-negotiable condition.”

“I’m listening.”

“Before we do this, you will hold up your wand and call on your magic exactly as if making a Wizard’s Oath, and incant ‘I, Harry Potter, invoke my battle-won right of Magical Conquest over Lord Voldemort’.”

Harry waited, but Voldemort didn’t continue. “That’s it?” Harry asked.

“That’s it,” Voldemort echoed, with an odd hint of resignation in his tone.

“What exactly will that do?” Harry asked.

Voldemort smiled mysteriously but didn’t answer. Harry blinked, and felt a stab of anxiety as he tried to calculate how many minutes they’d been speaking already and how much time they had left.

“Is it going to hurt anyone? Or set you free?” Harry asked.

“Not at all.”

“What does it do?” Harry tried again.

Voldemort still didn’t answer. 

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his already-messy hair. “How obvious would it be to the warden watching us that I’ve done something?”

“Very, I would expect.”

“So if I do what you’ve asked, you’ll have to make the Horcrux right away before the warden bursts in here and hauls me out. What’s the fastest way to get the soul to go into me?”

Voldemort smirked and answered, “The same way Dementors get souls out of people, of course.”

Harry blinked, then blushed severely once he processed the meaning. “You’re going to—”

“Time’s wasting, Harry,” Voldemort interrupted, seeming unbothered by the prospect of kissing his sworn enemy.

Harry took a deep breath, accepted the fact that agreeing to this mysterious Magical Conquest was apparently the only way to get what he came here for, then he reluctantly agreed, “Fine, I’ll do it.”

A relieved look flashed across Voldemort’s face before he schooled his expression back into neutrality. “Excellent decision.” He casually raised one of his hands to pick at the scratches on his neck, reopening them for the fresh blood.

“What are the words again?” Harry asked, trying not to stare.

Voldemort looked him in the eyes and said, “I, Harry Potter, invoke my battle-won right of Magical Conquest over Lord Voldemort.”

Harry swallowed, then twitched his wand slightly and shot a discreet locking spell at the door, thanking the universe when it didn’t come out overpowered or fizzle out halfway there. Then he held up his wand as if for an Oath, quickly gathered his magic, and recited, “I, Harry Potter, invoke my battle-won right of Magical Conquest over Lord Voldemort.”

The effects were immediate—Harry felt a flare of magic and a wave of dizziness and a brief burning sensation in his left wrist, and he glanced down to see some kind of rune magically inked into his skin. A hiss came from across the table, and Harry glanced at Voldemort’s wrist to find a similar symbol on his skin.

Harry heard the doorknob rattle, and he knew his locking spell wouldn’t hold up for long. “Hurry up, do it!” Harry demanded.

Voldemort met his eyes, grinned, then raised his chained hands and brought his fist down quickly to smash the rat’s head in. Harry winced, fairly certain there was blood spatter on the front of his robes now. He ignored it, unceremoniously knocked the rat carcass to the ground, and then climbed onto the table to put himself in Voldemort’s reach as Voldemort stood up from the chair.

Voldemort swept one finger over the bleeding scratch on his own neck, gathering a few drops of blood before pressing his finger into Harry’s mouth. Harry tasted the coppery blood and licked it off almost by instinct. Then the finger was gone and replaced with warm, demanding lips on Harry’s, and an insistent tongue pressing into Harry’s mouth to war with his own. Voldemort’s chained hands grabbed a fistful of Harry’s robes to pull him closer as he tilted his head for a better, deeper angle. Then, something intangible that felt like light and ice and fireworks all at once was pressing inside of Harry, past his lips and into the very core of his being, into his soul—there was a sudden twinge in his scar, a pleasant tingling where there had only been emptiness for so long—and Harry’s entire being rejoiced in a silent ‘yes’ as the new Horcrux settled into Harry’s scar. Harry smiled against Voldemort’s lips, then he reached up to bury one hand in Voldemort’s hair and tilted his head to a better angle, intensifying the kiss even further.

After another moment the door finally burst open and the livid warden rushed in. Harry pulled back just far enough to break the kiss, and he abruptly realized that he’d continued snogging Voldemort for several more seconds than necessary—but the Dark Lord hadn’t stopped either, so Harry supposed the mental breakdown over it could wait until later.

Neither Harry nor Voldemort made any attempt to move away from each other until the warden marched up to them, wand drawn.

“Potter, get off the fucking table,” the warden growled, jabbing his wand into Voldemort’s sternum until he took half a step back from Harry, which was all the distance the chains attached to the table would allow. “This is not what we discussed.”

Harry climbed off of the table as casually as he could, then said, “We never really discussed anything—you just tossed out a lot of vague comments, so—”

The warden’s face started going Uncle Vernon purple, and he shouted, “I thought you were going to beat him or fuck him! Not—whatever the hell that was. What was that?” he demanded.

“Excuse me?” Harry demanded right back, his voice a bit higher than usual from both shock and indignation.

“Why did you think I warned you that he bites? You’re lucky to still have a tongue. He bit Anderson’s dick off yesterday, for Merlin’s sake!”

Harry’s jaw dropped.

Voldemort shrugged faux-casually and said, “No means no.”

The warden sneered at him before ignoring him to ask Harry, “What the hell kind of spell did you do? It completely fried the wards in this room—”

“And the collar,” Voldemort added.

“And the—what?” the warden yelped, raising his wand and pointing it at Voldemort as the Dark Lord reached up and easily removed the metal collar with no hindrance or consequences. On his skin where the collar had been was a line of tiny runes similar to the one on his wrist, circling his neck and forming a different collar of ink and magic.

Voldemort frowned and said facetiously, “I’m almost disappointed, I was starting to enjoy getting shocked every time I touched it. Oh well,” he added, flinging the metal collar aside. He stared down at his bound hands with a look of concentration, and a few seconds later, the chains released his hands and fell to the ground as well.

Harry raised his wand as well, but kept it pointed vaguely between Voldemort and the warden, ready to swing towards whichever one decided to attack.

“Potter,” the warden repeated, not amused. “What spell did you do?”

Harry caught Voldemort’s eye and nodded towards the warden, and told him, “You explain.”

Voldemort frowned, but then answered as if compelled by the Imperius, “He claimed his right of Magical Conquest over me.”

The warden turned horrified eyes on Harry and demanded, “What the fuck, Potter?”

“What?” Harry asked, startled by the man’s intense reaction.

“What do you mean ‘what’? You just tied him to you with a permanent fucking slave bond!”

Harry gaped at Voldemort and repeated shrilly, “Slave bond?”

Voldemort gave Harry a pointed look that seemed to say ‘play along’ and then in a placating tone he said, “Yes, I know you morally disagree with that aspect of it, but I am eternally grateful that you’ve taken on the burden of my custody rather than leaving me to suffer years of assault and abuse.” He knelt down—knelt on the fucking ground in front of Harry—and reached one hand up to take Harry’s right hand and then kissed the knuckles where a Lordship ring would be if Harry had worn one. “You are a kind and generous master.”

“Erm,” Harry felt himself blushing because what the fuck, and he stuttered out an awkward, “you’re welcome?”

The warden interrupted, “Potter, you don’t even understand how badly you’ve fucked up, do you?”

“Er,” Harry said, tearing his eyes away from Voldemort to glance at the nauseous looking warden instead.

“I have to report this to the Ministry,” the warden said.

“Excellent,” Voldemort spoke up, his presence in no way diminished by the fact that he was still kneeling on the floor at Harry’s feet. “I’m sure they’d be interested to hear about the way prisoners are being treated here under your leadership.”

The warden’s face went purple again and he bellowed, “You’ll keep your fucking mouth shut—”

Voldemort swiftly and smoothly stood up, his height towering over the warden as he took a step closer, “Or what?” he asked in an icy, murderous tone. “You have no power over me now, Warden.”

The warden paled, reflexively raising his wand and taking a step back. He turned to Harry instead and said, “Potter, order him to keep quiet about Anderson and all of that.”

“No,” Harry said immediately, “I don’t think I will.”

The warden blinked, “But—”

Harry interrupted him. “At first I didn’t understand half of the little comments you were making in your office, but looking back, I do now.” He paused and looked the warden right in the eye, his lip curling slightly as he continued, “You thought I was here to either torture or rape him, and you bloody offered to help. You disgust me, and if it were up to me, you’d be in a cell here instead of that cushy office.”

The warden backed away towards the door with his wand raised. “Well,” he said, “It’s your word against mine, Potter. And since you’ve just invoked an illegal slave bond upon a prisoner, I’m betting my word will hold a bit more weight.”

Harry gave him a humorless smile and said, “We’ll see.” Then he clutched his wand and quickly cast, “Expecto Patronum!” The familiar stag materialized from Harry’s wand and stood beside him, awaiting orders.

At the same moment, the warden raised his wand towards Harry and shouted “Stupify!”

Voldemort lifted his hands, palms facing outward, and wordlessly cast a Shield Charm around Harry before the spell could hit. Then he casually flicked his hand again, tossing a silent Expelliarmus at the warden and sending his wand clattering to the other side of the room.

Harry blinked in shock, forgetting for a moment that he had intended to send a Patronus message. “How did you—?”

Voldemort gave him a smirk that managed to be at once smug and bitter. “It’s my duty to protect you, Master,” he said, with an almost sarcastic emphasis on the title. “And you haven’t forbidden me from using magic.” 

Harry blinked again, then swallowed and said. “Right, erm,” that was definitely something they would have to discuss later. 

The warden took Harry’s distraction as a chance to try to flee the room, but Voldemort stretched out his hand again, and with a casually elegant gesture he sealed the door with what Harry thought was a Colloportus, and then pointed a finger and hit the warden with a Stupefy.

Harry felt both awe and jealousy towards the effortlessness with which Voldemort did wandless and wordless magic. In the past he would’ve also felt a frisson of fear, but right now Harry was very aware of the fact that, impossibly, he held control of this powerful wizard who used to call him an enemy but now called him Master. Harry could order him not to do magic and Voldemort would have to obey—the thought was a little bit overwhelming. After what must’ve been an unusually long silence, Voldemort glanced over at Harry and quirked an eyebrow, which inexplicably made Harry blush. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Harry curiously, but then he smiled.

“You were about to send someone a message, I believe?” he said, nodding towards the stag Patronus that was still standing beside Harry.

“Right. Yeah.” He paused, but then he waved his wand and dispelled the Patronus without sending anything. He cast another Muffliato and asked, “But before I do—if there are any more surprises in store about this bond you tricked me into, I’d rather you tell me now and not in front of an audience.”

Voldemort met Harry’s eyes and took a few steps closer to him. “I can’t harm you or attempt to, obviously. There’s also a proximity requirement—unless I’ve been specifically ordered otherwise, I have to remain within the boundaries of your home or within fifty meters of you at all times.”

“Or what?” Harry asked.

“Or this,” Voldemort said, tracing a finger along the runes around his throat, “will constrict and slowly strangle me until I get back within the boundaries.”

“All right,” Harry said, thinking that none of that seemed like too much of an imposition on him as the ‘master’. He’d expected much worse. “Anything else?”

Voldemort seemed to hesitate for a moment before saying in a faux-casual tone, “Well, there is the matter of the…consummation.”

“What?” Harry demanded. Surely that didn’t mean what it sounded like?

Voldemort averted his eyes and elaborated, “This type of bond isn’t finalized until the master claims conquest of the slave’s body as well as their magic and will.”

Harry blinked, and felt himself paling. “No. I won’t—I’m not doing that.”

Voldemort paled as well, then gave him a disbelieving look and explained, “If it isn’t finalized, the bond will become unstable and it will start leeching my magic to sustain itself—when it eventually drains all of my magic,” he said, looking nauseous at the thought, “it will start draining my life force instead and kill me.”

Harry opened his mouth a few times but couldn’t seem to find the words. Finally he managed, “But I can’t just—just rape you! I thought that’s what you were trying to get away from?” he said, sweeping his hand out and gesturing vaguely to the prison at large.

Voldemort blinked, then said, “It won’t be rape. I chose this, Harry. I knew what the requirements would be.”

“Well I didn’t know what the requirements would be,” Harry snapped. “Did you think about that at all?”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Voldemort said insincerely, his tone growing bitter. “You got a piece of my soul back just like you wanted, and now you get a free slave and a free fuck as well. My heart weeps for you, truly.”

“Shut up,” Harry snapped. “Why would you want to be my slave anyway? How is that any better than just staying here?”

Voldemort gave him a cold look and remained silent.

“Answer me,” Harry ordered, feeling a brief thrill of power as he did.

Voldemort’s expression tightened for a moment before the bond forced him to answer. “Because ironically I’m both freer and safer as your slave than as a prisoner here.” He went silent again after that.

“Okay, elaborate on that,” Harry ordered.

After a brief glare and a moment of trying to fight the compulsion to answer, Voldemort said, “Wearing that magic-blocking collar felt like slowly suffocating every second of every day. And after my appearance changed, certain of the guards decided that they would rather try to fuck me than just beat me senseless. Anderson was the first one to try, but he certainly wouldn’t have been the last—they would’ve just worked in pairs in the future and I wouldn’t have been able to fight off more than one while chained and without magic.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck and awkwardly said, “I’m sorry that that happened to you.”

“Nothing happened to me,” Voldemort said immediately. “I bit off his dick when he tried to make me suck it—I rather think that means I won.”

“Right, of course,” Harry said, feeling far out of his depth. “But what made you so sure that I would be any better? Technically I could order you not to use magic and it’d be the same as the collar, wouldn’t it?”

Voldemort met his eyes and said, “True, but I know you, Harry Potter. You aren’t needlessly cruel, and you aren’t the type of person to abuse someone under your care.”

“Except I’ll have to,” Harry said, a hint of anger leaking into his tone. “If we have to—to consummate the bond.”

“It won’t be rape.”

“It will, because you can’t consent if you’re already my slave!”

“I consented beforehand.”

“I didn’t!”

Voldemort blinked, as if he truly hadn’t considered that Harry would be upset by this. “I didn’t realize it would bother you,” he said, before carefully and awkwardly adding, “if it wasn’t already clear, you’ll be the one buggering me, you won’t have to—”

“It doesn’t matter who goes where,” Harry said tersely, blushing a bit because now he was bloody picturing it. “That’s not the point!”

Voldemort tilted his head and studied Harry for a moment before something finally seemed to click and he concluded, “You think that by not explaining the full terms of Magical Conquest before asking you to invoke it, I’m both raping you and forcing you to become a rapist?”

Harry averted his eyes and mumbled, “More or less, yeah.” When he looked up again after a long silent moment, it was to find Voldemort studying him with a curious, appraising look. “What?” Harry asked, crossing his arms self-consciously.

“Imagine that we’ve gone back in time,” he said in a smooth, calming voice. “You’ve just walked in—you want the Horcrux back, I want out of this place. This time, I explain everything beforehand—you know then everything that you know now—about the guards and my situation, about the slave bond, about the consummation.” He paused, caught Harry’s eye, and asked, “What choice do you make?”

Harry didn’t even have to think about it very long. “I’d still do it, but—”

“But nothing,” Voldemort interrupted. “So I saved time by manipulating you into making the choice you would’ve made anyway—quit trying to make this into a tragedy.”

Harry glared at him, then huffed and looked away. 

He took several deep breaths to calm down, then focused on a happy memory and conjured his Patronus once again. “Expecto Patronum,” he said, opening his eyes to the comforting presence of the luminescent stag. “Tell Kingsley Shacklebolt that I need to see him at Azkaban immediately, alone. The warden has been abusing his power and he’s incapacitated. Tell Kingsley to have the guard out front bring him to Voldemort’s visiting room.” With that he sent the Patronus off, then turned back around to find Voldemort watching him.

Harry raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak, and for a few moments there was an almost comfortable silence.

“Shacklebolt is Minister now, isn’t he?” Voldemort finally asked.

Harry nodded. “Yep.”

“And you believe he’ll just drop everything and come running because Harry Potter says so?”

At that moment an answering Lynx Patronus shimmered through the wall and said, “I’ve just arrived—I’ll be down shortly.”

Harry looked at Voldemort and grinned. “Yes, yes I do,” he answered.

Voldemort, rather than looking annoyed, looked both mystified and impressed. “Do you even realize the extent of the power you hold in our world, Harry?” he asked.

Harry shrugged and looked away uncomfortably. “I never wanted power, or fame, or any of it.”

There was a heavy pause, then Voldemort quietly asked, “What do you want?”

Harry didn’t know how to answer. He was fairly sure that no one had ever actually asked him what he wanted before—people had just piled expectation after expectation on him and then vilified him whenever he failed to live up to them. 

Harry turned back around to face Voldemort, but he was saved from having to answer by a knock on the door. The Lynx Patronus made another appearance, phasing through the door and saying in Kingsley’s voice, “It’s me, and I’m alone. A guard escorted me down here but I’ve sent him away.”

Taking a deep breath, Harry started towards the door.

“Harry,” Voldemort called.

Harry paused and turned around.

Voldemort seemed to struggle with himself for a moment before saying quietly but sincerely, “Thank you.”

Harry’s eyebrows went up, but even through his shock he realized that this was definitely behavior he should encourage. “You’re welcome,” he said, giving him a small smile. Then he tapped his scar pointedly and said “Thank you.” Voldemort gave him a curious look, but nodded.

The knock sounded again, more insistently this time, and Harry hurried over to unseal and open the door.

“Harry,” Kingsley greeted, stepping inside. His eyes warily glanced from Voldemort to the unconscious warden before landing back on Harry. “I assume that’s the warden on the floor?”

“Yep,” Harry said, taking a few steps backwards to put himself between Kingsley and Voldemort.

As expected, Kingsley looked over at Tom Riddle’s battered face and asked, “And you are?”

Voldemort chuckled, then at Kingsley’s raised eyebrow he explained, “I haven’t needed to introduce myself for years—although I looked much different until just recently.” He stepped closer until he stood right beside Harry, then held out his hand and waited for Kingsley to accept the handshake before saying, “Lord Voldemort. Pleased to meet you.”

Kingsley froze, but didn’t pull his hand away or attack or do any of the things Harry had worried he would. Instead he blinked, regained his composure admirably quickly, and ended the handshake by introducing himself as etiquette dictated. “Kingsley Shacklebolt, but I imagine you already knew that.”

Voldemort nodded politely and let go of his hand, and Kingsley cautiously watched him for another moment before turning his eyes to Harry.

“Exactly what kind of mess have you dragged me into?” Kingsley asked Harry.

“Well, er,” Harry said, unsure where to even start.

Voldemort quietly interjected, “Might I explain, Harry?”

Harry blinked at the uncharacteristically polite tone and timidity, and decided immediately that it was all for show. Nevertheless, he said, “Sure,” and decided to see what story Voldemort would try to sell—Harry could always contradict it if he didn’t like the way Voldemort played it.

Voldemort nodded towards Harry, then turned his eyes and his focus to Kingsley instead. “As an Order member you’re somewhat aware, I presume, of the unusual mental connection that Harry and I have always shared?” Kingsley nodded. “And you’re aware that my magic was bound immediately upon my imprisonment?” Kingsley nodded again. “Well,” Voldemort paused again, “no magic meant no Occlumency to block the connection, and,” he paused again, wearing a very convincing expression of embarrassment and defeat, “well. Certain…upsetting experiences…were conveyed to Harry, and he very graciously came here to put a stop to them.”

Kingsley gave a scrutinizing look to the injuries on Voldemort’s face and neck. “The guards were beating you?”

“At first,” Voldemort said, pausing and looking down at the ground as if ashamed. “Until my appearance changed, and they decided there were more satisfying ways to punish me.” Voldemort crossed his arms, and his shoulders seemed to slump slightly, and he steadfastly kept his eyes on the floor.

Kingsley’s eyebrows shot up at the inference, and he looked from Voldemort to Harry. Harry swallowed uncomfortably, then simply nodded to confirm Voldemort’s story. “Merlin,” Kingsley muttered, before glancing at the unconscious warden and asking, “And the warden knew? Or was he part of it?”

“He knew,” Harry chimed in. “The sick bastard encouraged it—he misunderstood why I was visiting, and he practically offered to hold him down for me,” he said in disgust.

“The warden also told Harry there was a way to keep me perfectly under control and tricked him into invoking Magical Conquest,” Voldemort casually chimed in.

Kingsley’s reaction was even more extreme than the warden’s—his eyes bugged, his jaw dropped, and he blurted out, “Fucking hell, Harry—you didn’t!”

Harry flinched slightly, but then forced himself to meet the Minister’s eyes and said, “I did…Is it really that bad?”

“Yes!” Kingsley shouted, before taking a breath and continuing in a quieter but still agitated tone. “It’s one of the most barbaric ancient rites in existence—it was outlawed a millennium ago, but if it’s illegally invoked it’s still magically binding and there’s no way to undo it. It’s worse than the Unforgivables.”

Harry looked at the ground and rubbed his neck uncomfortably. “Does that mean I’m going to end up locked in here with him?” he dared to ask, nodding towards Voldemort.

Kingsley sighed, rubbed an agitated hand over his forehead, then replied, “No. I won’t let that happen—even if all of us have to lie through our teeth about what happened here,” Kingsley explained, looking thoroughly disgusted. 

Harry subtly side-eyed Voldemort, who met his gaze but looked unbothered that the two of them were already lying through their teeth to Kingsley.

Harry looked back at Kingsley and tried to squash down his guilt when he asked, “So what now?”

Kingsley looked back and forth between Harry and Voldemort before telling Harry, “According to the law and to Magic, he’s in your custody now. He’s your property now,” Kingsley said, his disgust with the concept clear in his tone. “If you ordered him to stay in Azkaban, he would have to do it, but—”

“No,” Harry said immediately.

Kingsley glared at him for the interruption, then said, “As I was saying—with the situation being what it is, even he doesn’t deserve that. He’ll be going home with you, but before I let him out of my sight, we’re going to agree on a preliminary set of orders for you to give him.”

“Harry is my master, not you,” Voldemort said coldly.

“And he did something highly illegal,” Kingsley replied, “which could see him thrown in here right next to you if it ever becomes public knowledge. We’re agreeing on a set of orders right now, or neither of you are leaving.”

Voldemort raised a dubious eyebrow and said, “Do you truly expect me to believe you’d throw your ‘Savior’ into Azkaban?”

“Do you truly want to test me?” Kingsley replied.

Voldemort looked like he very much did want to test him, so Harry interjected with, “All right, it’s fine—you just mean orders like ‘no killing’ and that kind of thing, right? I’m not going to treat him like an actual slave.”

Voldemort studied his fingernails and replied, “It’ll need to be more specific than ‘no killing’, unless you want these runes strangling me if I happen to swat a fly.”

Kingsley suggested, “No killing or harming any human beings or humanoid magical creatures.”

“Am I not allowed a self-defense exception?”

Harry, feeling exhausted and already starting to get a headache from this, said, “Right, Voldemort, I order you not to kill any humans or humanoid magical creatures, and to not harm any either unless it’s in self defense. There.”

The runes around Voldemort’s neck seemed to glow with a silver sheen for a moment, accepting the orders.

Kingsley frowned and said, “Harry, don’t be rash with this. We need to put the proper consideration into every order so he can’t work around them.”

“Kingsley, I’m exhausted and still kind of in shock over all of this—I want to be done and go home.”

The Minister sighed, then said, “Fine. Order him not to harm, manipulate, or otherwise sabotage you, and that should cover it for now.”

Voldemort immediately chimed in, “I already can’t harm him. And I think the term ‘manipulate’ is too open to interpretation.”

“You would,” Harry muttered.

Voldemort quirked an eyebrow at him and said, “If I brought you your favorite dessert to try to make you eat more because you were looking too thin, that would technically be manipulation. Do you really want me to be punished for something like that?”

“Are you really planning to bring me treacle tart that often?” Harry asked, amused.

Voldemort’s eyes gave him a brief once-over and he replied, “Perhaps. You do look a bit peaky.”

Harry rolled his eyes, then asked Kingsley, “What if we go with ‘malicious manipulation’ or something?”

Kingsley was giving the two of them an odd look, and he said cautiously, “I suppose that will do.”

“Good,” Harry said, before glancing at Voldemort and asking, “Any objections?” which earned him a surprised and concerned look from Kingsley. Harry was very aware that it probably wasn’t normal to ask a slave his opinion on an order before giving it to him, but he honestly didn’t give a flying fuck—he was going to do everything he could to make this experience easier and less disgusting for both himself and Voldemort, which meant treating him with dignity and giving him as much choice and agency as possible.

Voldemort gave him an unreadable look, then finally said, “Add the word ‘deliberately’ in front of sabotage. Otherwise, I have no objections.”

“All right,” Harry said. He cleared his throat, then told Voldemort, “I order you not to deliberately sabotage me or maliciously manipulate me.” The runes shimmered again, and Voldemort looked slightly nauseous. “What?” Harry asked, a bit concerned.

Voldemort blinked, then answered, “It isn’t exactly pleasant having my will stripped away.”

“Sorry,” Harry said awkwardly. “We’re done now though.”

Kingsley said, “No, we aren’t. He’s clearly already manipulating your emotions and your kindness, Harry. You need to restrict his magic, at least partially.”

Harry saw Voldemort’s expression tighten and felt a swell of dread through their connection, and he argued, “I already did, more or less—no killing or unprovoked harm means no Unforgivables.”

“You need to expressly forbid him from using Dark magic and harmful spells.”

Voldemort spoke up and asked in a deceptively mild tone, “And who decides what’s considered Dark or harmful?”

“It’s fairly self-evident,” Kingsley said tersely.

“Is it? Any spell can be harmful if it’s misused. Wingardium Leviosa could be used to kill—all you’d have to do is levitate someone up high enough and then drop them. And certain healing spells are considered Dark because the caster sacrifices some of their own life force to heal another person.”

Kingsley opened his mouth to argue but Harry cut in with, “Look, I’m not restricting his magic any further and that’s final. It’ll be on the table as a punishment if he does something awful, but I’m not doing it right now.”

Voldemort’s face remained intentionally blank, but Harry felt a flicker of satisfaction and relief and gratitude through their newly-reinstated mental link.

“Harry—” Kingsley tried.

“It hurts him,” Harry interrupted, quietly but with conviction. “I can feel it through our connection—wearing that collar made him feel like he was constantly suffocating. It’s too cruel to cut people off from their magic.”

Kingsley looked at Harry for a long moment before finally sighing and saying, “Fine. I think we’re both going to come to regret this lenience, but fine.” He glanced down at the warden on the floor, and said, “Wake him up. I hope you’re decent with Memory Charms, because I’ve always been pants at them.”

“Erm, I’ve never really tried any,” Harry said. Hermione had been the one Obliviating their attackers left and right while they were on the run.

Voldemort cleared his throat and said, “If I might offer my services, Harry? Although, this isn’t something I can do wandlessly. It requires precision.” 

When Harry looked over at him, Voldemort held out his hand expectantly. Harry blinked, but after a moment of deliberation, he placed his own wand in Voldemort’s open hand. 

Kingsley face-palmed and said, “Harry!”

“It’s fine,” Harry told the Minister without breaking eye contact with Voldemort. “Isn’t it?” he asked Voldemort in a warning tone.

“Of course.” Voldemort smirked then added in a smooth and almost teasing tone, “I live to serve you, Master.”

Harry felt himself blushing and looked away. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “I order you to wake up the warden and make him forget what he saw us do,” he said, making it intentionally vague. He paused, then as if clarifying he added, “Erm, make him forget he ever even knew about Magical Conquest. Make him believe Kingsley’s here to arrest him for how he let the guards treat you.”

“Gladly,” Voldemort said, giving Harry a subtle look of approval for the leniency in the order that would let him erase the kiss and the Horcrux ritual along with the Magical Conquest.

Voldemort flicked Harry’s wand at the warden and woke him up with an Ennervate, then wordlessy levitated the man to his feet. Before the warden even got his bearings enough to speak, Voldemort pointed the wand again and said, “Obliviate.” For a long moment, Voldemort silently removed and replaced the warden’s memories. Finally, he lowered Harry’s wand and said, “All done.”

The warden blinked a few times and glanced around in confusion, seeming only half-awake.

Kingsley caught Harry’s eye, then cast a Muffliato encompassing just the two of them and said quietly, “Take him home, and for the love of everything, keep him contained. I’ll arrange some kind of statement saying he’s been moved to a private cell in the Ministry for security reasons. And I suppose I’ll have to set up a new identity for him—the public story will have to be that he’s your bodyguard or something. Do not,” he said sternly, “tell anyone the truth of what you’ve done. Do you understand?” 

“I can’t keep this from Ron and Hermione, or Ginny—she’ll recognize him like this, since she had a run-in with a memory of his younger self in a cursed diary,” Harry said, deliberately not calling it a Horcrux. Dumbledore had kept the knowledge of Voldemort’s Horcruxes very close to the chest, and Harry had decided to follow his lead.

“Harry, no—do not tell a single soul about this. The consequences are too risky.” He hesitated, then added reluctantly, “And if you stupidly and recklessly ignore that order, then you better make anyone you tell swear a Vow of Secrecy. I’m dead serious, Harry,” Kingsley said. Harry nodded along, feeling rather exhausted all of a sudden. “And take your wand back!” Kingsley snapped, with a suspicious look at Voldemort, who seemed to have half of his attention on them and the other half on the disoriented warden while he idly twirled Harry’s wand between his fingers.

Harry nodded, and Kingsley cancelled the Muffliato and gave Harry an expectant look.

Harry cleared his throat and held his hand towards Voldemort. “Wand?” he said, which wasn’t quite an order. Nevertheless, Voldemort handed it over with only the slightest hint of reluctance.

“It works remarkably well for me,” Voldemort commented. “Barely any resistance. Dare I ask what became of mine?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Er, I kept it, after the fight. Tried it once, too—it fought me. Seemed to find me lacking,” he said pointedly.

Voldemort understood the inference, and glanced at Harry’s scar before replying just as pointedly, “It probably won’t now.”

Harry forced an awkward smile and said, “I suppose we’ll see.”

“Right, well,” Kingsly butted in, sounding profoundly uncomfortable. “You two go home and play with each other’s wands, and I’ll arrest this creep. All right?”

Voldemort chuckled at the innuendo, and Harry’s face went red as he wondered whether Kingsley knew about the ‘consummation’ requirement of the bond.

Kingsley conjured his Lynx Patronus again, sending it off to fetch the guard. Then he approached the warden, who seemed to finally have returned to coherence. “Warden Hayden, you’re under arrest for abuse of power and for knowingly allowing and facilitating the abuse of prisoners in your care.” Kingsley approached the warden and cast a spell to bind the warden’s wrists together with black cord. Then he summoned the warden’s wand from across the room and pocketed it as evidence.

Harry tuned out the rest of the arrest spiel and the warden’s blustery protests, choosing instead to study Voldemort, who stood beside him with immaculate posture and the same aura of power and superiority that he’d always had. Being legally and magically a slave didn’t seem to have affected his demeanor much.

After a few moments of silent scrutiny, Voldemort said quietly without even looking at him, “You’re staring, Harry. I can feel it.”

Harry startled and looked away, embarrassed. “Sorry. This is all just—weird, you know?”

“Indeed,” Voldemort said wryly.

Harry was saved from further awkward conversation by the arrival of an unfamiliar guard and two Aurors who had apparently accompanied Kingsley to the prison but waited outside. The guard looked alarmed at seeing his boss tied up, and then even more alarmed when he caught sight of Voldemort out of his chains and collar.

Kingsley told the guard, “Warden Hayden is being arrested for knowingly allowing prisoners here to be abused. I’m taking this prisoner,” he said nodding towards Voldemort, “to the Ministry, where he will be placed in an isolated maximum security cell, for his safety and everyone else’s.”

The guard blinked a few times, but unsteadily agreed, ‘Of course, Minister…Is that Harry Potter?”’ He looked torn between being terrified of Voldemort and being thrilled that Harry was within autograph-requesting distance. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Kingsley said in a withering tone. “Show us out.”

The guard hurried to comply after one last hopeful glance at Harry, and he led them through a much more direct pathway back up to the ground floor and then out through the main doors.

When they all stepped out into the fresh air, Voldemort closed his eyes and took a deep breath, seeming to savor it as a subtle blissful expression made his features seem even more handsome, despite the cuts and the bruising. He opened his eyes and quirked an eyebrow at Harry when he caught him staring again. Harry just shrugged before glancing away.

“Harry?” Kingsley said, giving him a serious look. “You’ll take him to the location we discussed, and keep him secure?”

Harry nodded, and said, “Yes, of course.” He held out his arm for Voldemort, who took it at once, clearly eager to get away from Azkaban. “Thank you, Kingsley,” Harry said.

Kingsley nodded, and said somberly, “I’ll be in touch.”

Harry closed his eyes, concentrated, and then Apparated himself and Voldemort back to Grimmauld Place.

  
~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I already had this fic’s opening scene fully imagined with Harry visiting Voldemort in prison and demanding the Horcrux back, bringing Wormtail as the sacrifice. Then I read “Poetic Justice” by VoidRealmer, who really really wants more slave!Tom fics, and I decided to have Voldemort trick Harry into making him his slave, because why not? ;) Obviously I’m subverting the trope a bit, as Tom chose his own fate and he’s not going to be perfectly docile or broken, and meanwhile Harry’s going to try to make things as equal as possible because he’s disgusted by the situation… But anyway, welcome to this carnival ride of codependence and consent issues and enemies-to-lovers smut and eventual romance.
> 
> FYI this is my 3rd WIP (bc I have no chill), and my updates tend to be long chapters (10-15k ish although I’m trying to get in the habit of shorter chapters) but approx 1-2 months apart, sometimes slower when RL gets hectic.
> 
> (Edit 2/14/20: I changed the time frame, so this is 3 months after the final battle instead of 6... because reasons.)
> 
> Comments give me life!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, FYI I changed the time frame of this fic a bit—instead of six months after the battle at Hogwarts, it’s now only 3 months after…. Because reasons ;) 
> 
> And please don't get used to this quick of an update-- my muse just wouldn't shut up this time LOL.
> 
> Also this chapter is very much NSFW ;)
> 
> Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

  
Harry apparated directly into the foyer of Grimmauld Place, and soon as he landed a wave of exhaustion came over him and he swayed on his feet for a moment—the only thing that kept him from falling over was Voldemort’s lingering grip on his arm from the apparition. Harry glanced up at his unlikely new roommate (slave, his guilty conscious reminded him, he’s your slave now), then he forced a smile and told Voldemort, “Welcome home, I guess.” Which was just plain weird, and Harry had the rather absurd and slap-happy thought that he’d gone to Azkaban hoping to get a Horcrux and he’d ended up getting the whole Voldemort. He stifled the laugh that wanted to escape, certain that his guest wouldn’t appreciate it.

He couldn’t quite decipher the expression on Voldemort’s face, but it made him nervous, so he started to ramble. “Erm, this is number 12 Grimmauld Place. It used to belong to my godfather. Used to be the Order headquarters too. We, er, had to redo the Fidelus after we accidently brought a Death Eater here once, so only a handful of people have access now. Congrats on being one of them, I suppose.” He paused but Voldemort remained silent and his expression didn’t change, so Harry continued, “Er, it’s still kind of a mess around here, but it’s livable. You can have whichever bedroom you want except the one with Sirius’ name on the door, or the master bedroom since that one’s mine.”

“Naturally,” Voldemort finally said, then his strangely blank expression gave way and he let out a shaky laugh that morphed into borderline hyperventilation after a moment. He was staring off into the middle distance, and he still hadn’t let go of Harry’s arm.

Harry’s eyebrows went up and he tried to catch Voldemort’s eye. “Erm, Voldemort? You all right?”

Voldemort locked eyes with Harry and his grip on Harry’s arm tightened a fraction as he focused his red eyes on Harry’s green. He gradually managed to pull himself back under control, visibly forcing himself to take deeper, slower breaths. After a long few moments he finally blinked a few times and answered wryly, “It’s been a rough few months.”

Harry huffed a laugh and said, “Understatement of the year, that.”

“Indeed.” 

He still hadn’t let go of Harry’s arm, and there was a pleasant sort of buzzing feeling building in Harry’s skin where they touched. The feeling seemed to echo in his scar as well. After a moment, Voldemort’s brows furrowed slightly and he glanced down at the point of contact as well.

Suddenly feeling awkward, Harry started to pull his arm away and said, “So, er, do you want to pick a room and get settled in, or—?”

Voldemort held on to Harry’s arm gently but insistently, not letting him pull away. “No,” Voldemort said, wearing a look of resignation. “We should get the consummation over with—I can already feel the bond drawing from my magic.”

Harry blushed. “Erm, can’t it wait til tomorrow at least? I mean, I’m kind of exhausted, and we should talk about it first, you know? Likes and dislikes, safe words, that kind of thing?”

Voldemort raised a judgmental eyebrow at him and said, “You’re seventeen, I’m sure you can manage an erection no matter how tired you are.”

Harry blushed again and corrected, “Eighteen now, actually.” 

A little over a week ago, he’d suffered through an awkward birthday party at the Burrow, desperately trying to keep his little problem with his erratic magic a secret, and trying to act as normal as possible so Ron and Hermione wouldn’t catch on that anything was wrong, or that Harry was planning something entirely insane. Between the entire Weasley family’s grief over Fred’s death and the newness of Ron and Hermione’s romantic relationship, Harry figured his two best friends and his surrogate family should be distracted enough for him to get away with it. He’d also had a rather awkward kiss with Ginny at the party, but it hadn’t gone any further and they’d seemed to mutually agree without really talking about it that whatever they’d had before had fizzled out.

“Congratulations,” Voldemort said dryly. Then he ran a hand through his hair in a rare nervous gesture, and said, “I don’t feel the need for a safe word, and it doesn’t really matter what we normally prefer—it’s a quick fuck to consummate the bond, that’s all. Just think about someone else and get it over with.”

Harry blinked, and uncomfortably said, “Right.”

The silence stretched on until Voldemort finally prompted, “Well?” and gestured vaguely towards the stairs. “Show me to your room.”

Harry blushed again, but nodded and determinedly escorted the former Dark Lord up the stairs and down the corridor to the master bedroom Harry had claimed for his own. Voldemort, keeping his eyes on the floor, finally let go of Harry’s arm and unceremoniously tugged off the loose and unflattering grey Azkaban tunic he wore, dropping it to the floor. Harry gasped at the patchwork of mottled bruises all over Voldemort’s back and chest.

Voldemort paused and glanced over at Harry, then down at himself as if he’d forgotten the bruises were there, or even worse, as if he was simply used to their presence. “Ah,” he said uncomfortably. “If you’ll lend me your wand for a moment, I’ll get rid of this mess.”

Harry shook his head a bit numbly and stepped closer, drawing his wand and ignoring Voldemort’s slight flinch when Harry extended his wand to heal the damage himself. Bit by bit, the bruises disappeared and Voldemort visibly relaxed. Harry felt Voldemort’s intense gaze boring into him, so he saved the man’s face for last, quickly healing the bruises and the black eye and the scratches on his neck and finally the split lip, all while avoiding eye contact. “There,” Harry finally said. 

Voldemort gave him an inscrutable look, then quietly said, “Thank you.”

Harry forced a small smile and said, “Yeah, well. The way I see it, it’s my duty to take care of you too now.” 

Voldemort blinked but said nothing, giving Harry a long, scrutinizing look that made him squirm a bit.

“Erm,” Harry said, “do you want to have a shower first, or?”

Voldemort hesitated, seeming torn between getting the consummation over with and having a hot shower for probably the first time since he’d been tossed into Azkaban. Finally, he nodded.

Harry pointed to the door to the en suite bathroom and said, “Bathroom’s through there. Take as long as you want.”

Voldemort nodded again and strode into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. 

Harry let out an enormous sigh and sat down on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands. He was still exhausted, still half in shock, still feeling slightly punch-drunk and giddy after regaining the Horcrux in his scar, and still entirely uncomfortable with the idea of having sex with someone who was his slave. 

But despite all of that, Voldemort clearly wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, so Harry took advantage of the temporary solitude to try to shove away all of his compunctions and try to get himself into the right mindset. It was just sex, after all—nothing new. Even sex with a man wasn’t new to Harry, thanks to a tumultuous and short-lived secret fling with Draco Malfoy back in sixth year. 

It was just sex, he told himself again and again. He stood up and pulled off his robes, carelessly tossing them over the back of a chair, then kicked off his shoes and socks and shed his trousers as well. He started to unbutton his shirt, but then he hesitated—was he getting too far ahead of himself? Was it going to freak Voldemort out if he came out of the shower to find his master already undressed and waiting for him? Harry shivered a bit—both in discomfort and in something he refused to name—at referring to himself as Voldemort’s master. It felt wrong, but also a bit…thrilling? Horrifying? Both?

“This is so fucked up,” Harry muttered to himself, pushing past his hesitation and tugging off his shirt. Just get it over with—that’s what Voldemort wanted, so Harry was going to respect that. Unfortunately that meant getting a certain reluctant body part on board with the plan—and despite the imminence of getting laid, he wasn’t even half hard, too conflicted by the whole slavery thing and too anxious about the fact that if he didn’t consummate the bond, then it would hurt and eventually kill the man who was now dependent upon him.

Harry sighed and sat back down on the bed, wearing only his y-fronts. He shoved the pillows out of his way and leaned his back against the headboard as he splayed his legs out in front of him and slipped one hand into his underwear to try to coax his reluctant cock into hardness.

He stroked himself, starting out with a light, almost teasing touch, letting his eyes drift closed as he tried to push away his conflicted thoughts and just focus on the physical sensations. It was just sex. Just sex, that’s all. Just this wonderful friction and pressure, and the anticipation of the tightness and heat of another body underneath him. After a moment his cock started to harden and he tightened his grip, going just a little harder, just a little faster. He remembered the glimpse of Voldemort’s bare chest he’d gotten while healing him, and licked his lips. He remembered that heated, perfect kiss back in Azkaban, and the bright-cold-explosive feeling of the Horcrux reentering his scar. Harry’s hand sped up, sliding up and down his now fully-hard cock while he bit his lip, eyes still closed.

The sudden sound of a throat clearing startled Harry, and his eyes snapped open and he immediately pulled his hand away from his cock and out of his underwear, despite already being caught.

Voldemort, wearing only a towel around his hips, stood in the bathroom doorway, unabashedly watching Harry. “Don’t stop on my account,” he said in a mild but teasing tone.

Harry felt the blush heating his face, and said, “I was just—you said you wanted to get it over with quickly, so, yeah.”

“Indeed,” Voldemort said, giving him a hint of a smile as he walked over to the bed. Harry couldn’t keep from staring—his eyes trailed over Tom Riddle’s gorgeous face, which was made even more attractive somehow by an unruly lock of still-damp hair that kept falling into his eyes. Then Harry’s gaze trailed down his chest, and down further until that damned bath towel blocked the view. He was vaguely aware that Voldemort was saying something, but he missed almost all of it.

“Er, sorry, what?” Harry asked.

Voldemort gave him an unimpressed look and then tossed him a small vial of clear oil, which Harry caught reflexively. “I said,” he told Harry with a slight glare, “that this should suffice as lubricant. I’ve already prepared myself, but,” he paused and glanced away with just the slightest look of apprehension, “I’ve never been on the receiving end of this before, and I would appreciate it if you would start slowly and show some restraint.”

Harry blinked and very valiantly tried not to imagine Voldemort working himself open with those long elegant fingers, then he cleared his throat and nodded and awkwardly said, “Yeah, of course. I have been. Er, I mean, I’ve done it both ways, so, I know what I’m doing. I’ll be careful.” 

Voldemort raised an eyebrow at him, but evidently he decided not to ask for more details. Instead, he unceremoniously dropped the towel from around his waist—effectively short-circuiting Harry’s brain—and then climbed onto the bed beside Harry. “Get on with it, then,” he muttered as he positioned himself in the center of the bed on his knees and forearms.

Harry swallowed, letting his gaze rake over the beautiful man beside him—who was tense and staring down at the bedspread, refusing to look at Harry as he waited. Voldemort’s cock, Harry noticed, hung completely soft and uninterested, and Harry’s own erection had flagged significantly at his partner’s obvious distress. “Erm,” Harry started uncertainly.

“Fucking do it already,” Voldemort hissed at him, still staring straight down at the bedspread as if trying to glare a hole through it.

“All right,” Harry said in what he hoped was a calming tone. 

Harry scooted to the edge of the bed and stood up, quickly discarding his underwear, and then he climbed back onto the bed behind Voldemort, who impossibly tensed even further when he felt the mattress dip.

“Not going to hurt you,” Harry murmured, reaching out to smooth his palms along Voldemort’s back in a soothing manner. He repeated the motion a few times before trailing his hands down further to the man’s hips, and then tentatively reaching one hand around to grasp Voldemort’s cock.

Voldemort startled and flinched away from the touch, then snapped at Harry, “That isn’t necessary, just do it already, Potter.”

Harry quickly pulled his hand away, stung both by the reaction and by being called his surname—he was fairly certain Voldemort had always called him Harry. “Haven’t you ever heard of foreplay?” Harry muttered, his own erection completely gone now.

“This isn’t sex,” Voldemort snapped at him.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“It’s a regrettably necessary part of a ritual to prevent me from losing my magic and dying,” he ranted, “so I would appreciate it, Master,” he sneered, “if you would just get on with it.”

Harry sighed and rubbed one hand over his eyes and then nervously ran it through his hair. “I know,” he said. “I just—I can’t do it like this.”

Voldemort’s head whipped around to glare at Harry over his shoulder. “Excuse me?” he hissed.

Embarrassed and frustrated, Harry gestured down to his own limp cock and said, “I can’t do it like this—you’re not into it, and you won’t let me try to get you off, and I just can’t.” Harry paused, and sighed again, and said, “You don’t want it—it’s just too much like rape. I can’t.”

Voldemort glanced down at Harry’s cock, then back up at his face. He studied him for a long moment, then said, “Fine—you can touch me if you have to. Close your eyes and think of someone else, and just get it over with.”

“That’s not—”

Voldemort let out a frustrated growl and let his forehead drop to the mattress.

Harry sighed, and knee-walked up the mattress so he was no longer looming behind Voldemort, then he laid down next to him instead. Voldemort turned his head to make eye contact, and Harry asked, “What if you get on top?”

Voldemort blinked, then said slowly and derisively, “I already told you that the master has to be the one to penetrate the slave to finalize the bond.”

Harry winced, then said, “I’d really rather you not call us that in bed. And that’s not what I meant anyway—I was thinking that you could ride me.” Harry blushed, but bravely held eye contact as he elaborated, “That way you’d be in control of the pace and everything, but you’d still technically be bottoming.”

Voldemort seemed to consider it, but eventually said, “If I’m in control, the bond might not recognize it as you ‘claiming’ me.”

Harry sighed. “Then I don’t know what to do. Can we, I dunno, take a lust potion or something?”

“Do you have a lust potion lying around?”

“No…and I’d rather not be mobbed by the paparazzi trying to go buy one either,” Harry said. Voldemort snorted in amusement, and Harry glanced back over to catch his eyes and chuckled too. “Yeah, imagine that,” Harry said, grinning, “Rita Skeeter’s next front page story: The Boy Who Lusted.”

Voldemort laughed—a genuine, amused laugh-and somehow it made him even more handsome. It was totally unfair, Harry thought, for anyone to be that gorgeous.

“Hey,” Harry said softly after a moment, his heart somewhere in his throat. “Erm—that kiss wasn’t so bad earlier. Maybe—we could try that again? See if it helps?”

Voldemort blinked and his expression grew serious again. “All right.”

“And, er,” Harry quickly added, “if it does, and if we go further, I’d rather we face each other—I can’t tell from behind if I’m hurting you, or if you’re freaking out or anything.”

“I’m not going to ‘freak out’,” Voldemort said derisively.

“Prove it then,” Harry said, tilting his head closer to Voldemort’s. “Kiss me.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed briefly, but then he was shifting closer to Harry and running one hand through his hair as his lips descended on Harry’s, capturing them and claiming them and parting them with his tongue as it sought out Harry’s to brush against it in tantalizing motions. Harry moaned into the kiss, but Voldemort abruptly pulled back and said flatly, “The bond considered that an order.”

Harry’s blissed-out mood evaporated and his heart sank, “Oh god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Voldemort rolled his eyes and leaned in to kiss him again, but Harry turned his head and frantically blurted out, “You can stop kissing me now! Order cancelled! Erm—”

Voldemort chuckled and put one finger over Harry’s lips to silence him. “The order was fulfilled after the first one,” he explained, then leaned down to pointedly kiss Harry again of his own volition. It was every bit as amazing, but he pulled back much too soon and continued explaining, “Now, if you had said ‘don’t stop kissing me’ it would be a different story.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeated again. “I didn’t do that on purpose. I’m not going to force you to do things like that—I’m not like those guards, I swear.”

“I know,” Voldemort said solemnly, giving Harry a look that was almost grateful. “Just be more careful with your phrasing when you speak to me.”

“All right,” Harry said, then he tentatively leaned up for another kiss. Voldemort met him halfway, and their lips seemed to be made for each other with how perfectly they fit together and how in-sync their movements were. Not to mention the pleasant buzzing in Harry’s scar that flared up between them when they kissed.

Harry gasped when he felt Voldemort’s hand boldly wrap around his cock and begin to stroke it. Harry moaned into the kiss and broke away just long enough to ask, “Can I touch you too?”

Voldemort didn’t answer verbally, but he reached for one of Harry’s hands and pressed it against his cock. Not hard yet, not even half—maybe a quarter, Harry thought absurdly as he stroked it from root to tip, swirling his thumb over the tip and pressing against the slit there on every upstroke. After only five or six strokes, Harry smiled into the kiss because—yep, Voldemort was definitely half-mast now—and Harry’s own cock was standing at full attention. It made a world of difference that his partner was responding and engaging and no longer acting terrified of him. And it certainly helped that he was so bloody gorgeous.

Harry’s brain-to-mouth filter malfunctioned and he blurted out against Voldemort’s lips, “Why are you so bloody gorgeous?”

Voldemort chuckled and flippantly said, “Just lucky, I suppose.”

Harry kissed him again but then said, “No, really—what happened to make you look like this again?”

Voldemort met his eyes, gave him a humorless smile, and answered, “You told me to try for some remorse…so I did.”

Harry blinked. “You—”

“Had a lot of time to think in Azkaban, in between sessions of the guards beating me senseless—they would usually leave me alone for a few days afterwards, to heal just enough that I wouldn’t die the next time. Magical healing wouldn’t work properly on me with the collar,” he said with a bitter smile. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, kissing him again and then hissing in pleasure when Voldemort continued stroking Harry’s cock.

Voldemort hummed into the kiss, then pulled back just far enough to say, “You said it with such conviction, ‘try for some remorse’, so when I had nothing left to lose, I decided that it couldn’t hurt.” He paused for a moment, bucking into Harry’s hand when he tightened his grip slightly, then said, “But it did—it hurt terribly. Worse than the night I first tried to kill you. But at the end of it, the pieces of my soul came back together, back into me, and somehow it restored my body as well.”

“But, the collar?”

“The soul has its own separate kind of magic—the collar couldn’t prevent it.”

“The Horcruxes, though—?”

Voldemort already seemed to know what Harry was going to ask, and he said, “The pieces of souls in Horcruxes aren’t completely destroyed when the vessel is destroyed, but neither do they move on—they linger in a sort of in-between place, a purgatory. Evidently remorse really can bring them back together.”

Harry stared up at Voldemort, caught somewhere between lust and pride and awe—but then he abruptly remembered what he’d demanded of the man and felt a flood of shame. “You—you fixed your soul, and then I barged in and made you tear it apart again,” he said guiltily.

Voldemort kissed him to silence his self-recrimination, and whispered, “It was worth it. Now hush, you’re supposed to be claiming me.”

With that, Voldemort let go of Harry’s cock and rolled over onto his back, tugging at Harry’s arm and shoulder to bring him along. Harry went with the motion, ending up between Voldemort’s legs, propped up over him on his knees and forearms and looking down into the dark red eyes of the man that used to be his enemy. Harry swallowed and nervously asked, “You sure you’re ready?”

“Yes,” Voldemort said, pointedly spreading his legs a bit further apart. “Do it.”

Harry wanted to, wanted so badly to just thrust inside and take him, but he held back and awkwardly asked, “Er, can I just check to make sure? With, erm, with my fingers?”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow at him, but said, “If you must.”

Harry nodded and said, “I don’t want to hurt you, especially if you’ve never done this.”

“Go on, then.”

Harry swallowed, then tore his gaze away from Voldemort’s face, trailing down his body and lingering on his cock before focusing on the tight ring of his entrance. He reached for the vial of oil, which had ended up on the nightstand, and poured a generous amount into his hand, coating his fingers before reaching down to lightly trace Voldemort’s hole with one finger. Voldemort’s breath hitched but he didn’t protest or try to pull away, so Harry pressed forward until his finger slipped inside that tight heat—which was still much too tight, Harry realized as he felt around inside.

“Yeah, that’s…wow,” Harry said. “Still too tight. You need more prep.”

Voldemort huffed impatiently and said, “I used two fingers.”

“And that’s not enough,” Harry reiterated as he cautiously worked a second slick finger alongside the first, carefully scissoring them several times before withdrawing.

“It’s always been enough for the men I’ve fucked.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up—he certainly had some questions but he refrained from asking them, and instead said, “Maybe, but I bet it wasn’t their first time bottoming.” Harry added more oil to his fingers, then used his other hand to stroke Voldemort’s cock while he pressed three fingers against his hole. “Push back against me a bit, it’ll help,” Harry said, waiting for Voldemort to comply before pressing inside. He kept it slow and shallow at first, letting him adjust and continuing to stroke Voldemort’s cock with his other hand. 

He pressed in a little further, but paused when he heard a sharp intake of breath from Voldemort and he tensed around him. On impulse, Harry leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the tip of Voldemort’s cock, murmuring, “It’s all right, try to relax.” He mouthed at Voldemort’s cock, taking the tip into his mouth and laving it with his tongue while his hand kept stroking the shaft. As Voldemort relaxed, Harry’s fingers pressed incrementally deeper, past the first knuckle, and at the same time he sucked harder on Voldemort’s cock, sliding his mouth a little further down his shaft to take more of it.

“Harry,” Voldemort gasped.

Without pulling his mouth off of Voldemort’s cock, Harry glanced up at him and quirked a questioning eyebrow. 

Voldemort bit his lip and then said, “If you keep that up, I’m going to come in your mouth.”

Harry hummed around him and sucked just a little bit harder, then pulled off with an obscene pop and said, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Voldemort blinked and seemed to be rendered speechless. Harry took the opportunity to slide his fingers in those last couple inches until they were fully inside, as deep as they could go. Voldemort hissed but it seemed to be from surprise rather than pain. 

Even so, Harry asked, “All right?”

Voldemort nodded. “Can we move this along?” he asked impatiently. 

Harry smirked and carefully prodded his fingers around inside, searching for a particular spot—there! He nudged against Voldemort’s prostate, and was rewarded with a shocked moan and a full-body shudder as Voldemort pushed back on Harry’s fingers, seeking that feeling again. 

“Why?” Harry asked innocently, “Are you not enjoying yourself?”

Voldemort ignored Harry’s playfulness and murmured, “Gods, I never knew it felt like that.”

“Ready for more?” Harry asked, deeming him adequately stretched and withdrawing his fingers when Voldemort nodded immediately. He reached for the vial of oil, pouring more into his hand and slicking up his cock while Voldemort watched with a half-eager, half-apprehensive expression. Harry wiped his hand on the sheets, then leaned down over Voldemort, propped up on his forearms. “Still all right with kissing?” Harry asked, just to make sure. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Voldemort asked, looking puzzled.

“Well, I did just have your dick in my mouth.”

“So?”

Harry laughed, kissed him briefly, then pulled back and said, “Nothing, just some people are squeamish about that kind of thing.”

“I’m hardly squeamish,” Voldemort said, reaching up to tangle one hand in Harry’s hair and pull him down into another filthy, intense kiss.

Harry moaned into the kiss, and then brought one hand down to position himself, pressing the tip of his cock gently against Voldemort’s entrance. Harry pulled back from the kiss just far enough to whisper, “Ready?”

Voldemort whispered back, “Do it.”

Harry kissed him again, his tongue pushing past Voldemort’s lips at the same time Harry’s cock slowly pushed inside him. Voldemort tensed up at first, clenching around him, but Harry kissed him and ran his hands soothingly along his sides and whispered against his lips, “Bear down a bit, push back against me,” Voldemort did, and the resistance disappeared and Harry slid a few inches deeper without meaning to. “Yes, fuck, that’s perfect.” He forced himself to stay still, to give Voldemort time to adjust before going any deeper. 

He rested his forehead against Voldemort’s, sharing the same air, feeling that pleasant buzzing in his scar once again while they both adjusted. When he thought it was all right, he pressed forward another inch or so and then paused again.

“Move,” Voldemort finally said, leaning up to steal a kiss from Harry before wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist and nudging him forward those last few inches. The motion forced Harry to bottom out completely, to bury himself balls-deep in the gorgeous man beneath him, and it was so fucking exquisite Harry nearly came right then. Voldemort muffled another moan against Harry’s lips, and Harry reached down for Voldemort’s cock, taking it in hand and stroking as he pulled out about halfway before sliding back inside.

“Still all right?” Harry asked, somewhat breathlessly.

“Yes,” Voldemort hissed, “stop asking.”

“Fine,” Harry said, “but you better tell me right away if I hurt you or if you want to stop.”

Voldemort blinked, then frowned at him. “That was an order,” he pointed out.

Harry nodded, “Yeah. That was.”

Harry leaned down to kiss the frown away from Voldemort’s lips, then he pulled out almost all the way before carefully pushing back in. Voldemort’s breath hitched but he didn’t protest, so Harry did it again, a bit faster this time. A bit harder the next. 

Their kisses quickly grew sloppy and uncoordinated as Harry’s thrusts sped up, so Harry leaned down to kiss Voldemort’s neck instead, his tongue tracing the dark shapes comprising the collar of runes while he fucked into the man below him. Harry’s hands had abandoned Voldemort’s cock at some point to grip his hips instead as he thrust into him, but when Voldemort reached down to stroke himself, Harry hissed and reached up to pin both of Voldemort’s hands to the bed beside his head instead, leaning down to kiss the Dark Lord’s surprised expression away.

“You feel so good,” Harry breathed, “so tight, so perfect.” Their chests were pressed together, and every thrust gave Voldemort’s cock some much-needed friction as Harry’s abdomen slid over and against his straining erection.

“Harry,” Voldemort gasped.

Harry kissed him again, then said, “I’m close—if you can hold off til I finish, I’ll suck you, all right?” he offered, thinking that Voldemort definitely deserved a reward for feeling this amazing, for being this responsive, for simply having to let Harry fuck him in the first place.

Voldemort hissed in a gasp and bit his lip as Harry’s next thrust nailed his prostate. “You might want to stop that, then,” he said pointedly.

Harry grinned at him and squeezed the hands that had at some point entwined fingers with his own as he pinned them down. Then he changed his angle to deliberately miss the prostate, and chased his own pleasure instead. Harry had never felt this complete in his life—not only did he have the Horcrux back inside him, Harry himself was inside Voldemort, and the connection between them was humming pleasantly and every nerve in Harry’s body was lit up with ecstasy. Harry pounded into Voldemort faster and harder and more erratically as he felt his orgasm approaching and he started to lose the rhythm. “Coming,” he whispered against Voldemort’s lips, just before the white-hot bliss overtook him and he spilled himself deep inside of his former enemy.

The collar of runes around Voldemort’s neck briefly shimmered with a bluish white light, as did the runes on Harry and Voldemort’s wrists. Harry blinked, and even through the post-orgasmic haze he murmured, “You all right? Did the runes do anything to you?”

Voldemort swallowed and seemed to consider it for a moment before answering, “I’m fine—it just felt strange. The bond is finalized.”

Harry nodded, then let his forehead rest against Voldemort’s while he caught his breath. After a long, silent moment, he shifted his hips and pulled out of Voldemort, who unwrapped his legs from Harry’s waist and lowered them to stretch out on the mattress instead. Harry pressed another kiss to Voldemort’s lips, then moved lower, licking a stripe across the rune collar before moving lower again, latching onto a nipple and teasing it with his tongue and gentle scrapes of his teeth before kissing a trail even lower and lower and finally pressing a kiss to the tip of Voldemort’s cock before swallowing it whole and shocking a surprised and ecstatic moan out of the Dark Lord.

“Fuck, Harry,” he breathed, tangling one demanding hand in Harry’s messy hair to guide his movements, to push him to go just that little bit faster and deeper. Harry moaned around his cock, hoping that conveyed permission well enough for the bond to not interpret a little roughness as Voldemort hurting Harry. Harry went still for a moment to see whether anything adverse would happen, but nothing did and he relaxed—just in time for Voldemort to grasp Harry’s hair and pull his mouth fully off of him, and then demand, “What?”

Harry blinked, licked his lips, and echoed, “What?”

Voldemort frowned slightly and said, “You got really tense for a moment.”

Harry smiled at the man’s thinly-masked concern and said, “I was worried that the bond might think getting a little rough counted as trying to harm me, and that it might punish you. Evidently not.”

Voldemort blinked as if it hadn’t even occurred to him, then said, “Ah.”

Harry licked his lips slowly and deliberately, then asked, “Shall I continue?” Voldemort nodded, and Harry smiled and leaned back down, licking a teasing stripe up his cock from base to tip before saying, “And just to be clear, I’m perfectly fine with you being a little rough.” 

Then he plunged down and engulfed Voldemort’s cock once more, bobbing his head and sucking and then swallowing around it when it hit the back of his throat, taking him as deep as possible. Voldemort’s hands returned to Harry’s hair, gripping fistfuls and taking control of the rhythm, essentially fucking Harry’s throat as he thrust his hips up to meet him each time he tugged Harry down onto his dick. Harry moaned around Voldemort’s cock, and then reached one hand down to fondle his balls while the other pressed three fingers back inside Voldemort’s arse, still slick with lube and with Harry’s come. Harry thrust his fingers in twice before hitting his prostate and sending Voldemort over the edge.

Voldemort’s grip tightened in Harry’s hair as he held him still, coming down his throat as Harry eagerly swallowed every drop. Even when Voldemort’s breathing slowed back to normal and he let go of Harry’s hair, Harry didn’t pull off, reflexively swallowing a few more times around Voldemort’s cock. After a moment, Voldemort finally pushed Harry off of him with a hiss of, “That’s enough,” at the overstimulation.

Harry allowed it, then wiped his mouth and rather giddily threw himself down on the bed beside Voldemort, glancing over and giving him his most charming grin. “Well, that was amazing,” Harry said.

“Quite,” Voldemort said, still sounding a bit breathless. His eyes flicked down to stare at Harry’s mouth in something like awe.

Harry chuckled, then turned on his side and dared to throw one arm over Voldemort and rest his head on his bare chest. “This all right?” he asked, unsure whether the Dark Lord would have some kind of aversion to cuddling afterwards.

Voldemort hesitated, then said in an odd tone, “It’s fine.”

Harry frowned, tracing his fingers along Voldemort’s chest. “Your words are saying ‘it’s fine’ but your tone seems to be saying something else. Do you want to maybe clarify that?” Harry asked, careful not to frame anything as a command.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Voldemort finally said, clearly meaning the blowjob. His tone was a mixture of confused and appreciative and suspicious.

“I wanted to,” Harry replied.

“I killed your parents,” Voldemort said bluntly, also managing to kill the afterglow. “I tried to kill you several times.” His disbelieving tone asked the silent question of ‘how could you possibly have wanted to?’.

“I technically just raped you,” Harry replied just as bluntly. He felt Voldemort tense up beneath him and he added, “I figured I owed you a happy ending at the very least.”

“It wasn’t—” Voldemort started to argue, but Harry interrupted.

“Yeah, yeah, I know—it wasn’t rape and it wasn’t even sex, it was ‘a regrettably necessary ritual,’ right?” Harry threw Voldemort’s words back at him, feeling oddly angry and rejected. He’d gone out of his way to make it as enjoyable as possible despite the circumstances, and now it felt like Voldemort was throwing that consideration back in Harry’s face.

“Precisely,” Voldemort answered in a strange tone.

Harry scoffed and pulled away, laying on his back and rubbing both hands over his eyes. “Right, well it’s over now, so you can go pick out a bedroom and regret it somewhere else.” Voldemort seemed to hesitate, and Harry heard him draw in a breath to say something. In no mood to have more salt rubbed in his wounds, Harry cut him off before he had a chance to speak, snapping, “Do I need to make that an order?”

There was a very cold and heavy pause, then Voldemort answered, “Not at all, Master,” with his tone full of derision 

Harry’s temper flared, and he ordered anyway, “Get out of my room.”

Voldemort shot a glare at him, then stood up with a slight wince that made Harry feel a twinge of guilt. He strode first to the bathroom to retrieve his prison tunic and trousers, hastily getting dressed and then storming out of Harry’s room without another look at him. He even slammed the door behind him.

Harry let out a frustrated groan and turned onto his side, punching the spare pillow next to his head and idly noting even through his frustration that he would need to buy Voldemort something to wear other than that tattered prison outfit.

With that thought, Harry finally allowed the exhaustion of the day to carry him into a restless but welcome sleep.

  
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

  
Harry slept late the next morning, and woke up in a rare good mood—for once, he didn’t feel hollow, didn’t feel like his magic was rebelling, didn’t feel like he was missing a part of himself…and then he remembered.

Harry groaned and sat up in bed, grabbing his glasses off the nightstand. Physically, he still felt amazing—well-rested for a change, whole, and with that special sense of languid relaxation that always followed a spectacular shag. Emotionally, however…’conflicted’ was an understatement. He’d finally cracked and gone to Azkaban to see Voldemort. He’d taken Wormtail with him as a premeditated sacrifice. He’d demanded a Horcrux back and gotten it, and he’d agreed to a magical rite he knew nothing about and ended up enslaving his former enemy. Who lived with him now. Who was his slave now. Who he’d very thoroughly fucked the night before… And who he’d more or less kicked out of bed afterwards (after technically raping him) because Harry lost his temper. Harry groaned again and muttered, “Fuck my life,” before reluctantly climbing out of bed to dress.

He pulled on a pair of jeans and a charcoal gray tee shirt, tucked his wand into his jeans, and then cautiously stepped into the hallway. He had no way of knowing which room Voldemort had chosen, but on a hunch he walked all the way to the end of the corridor and knocked on the door of the bedroom furthest from his own. No answer came, but Harry felt compelled to check the room anyway—it was empty, but the sheets on the bed were in disarray and it was clear someone had slept there (or tried to, anyway). The door to the en suite bathroom was wide open and the light was off—the room truly seemed to be empty. Harry frowned, but then decided to head down to breakfast. He could get some food in him, some coffee perhaps, and then he’d try to find Voldemort to apologize and to talk about things.

He stifled a yawn as he stepped through the doorway into the kitchen—and then he stopped in his tracks, because Voldemort was already seated at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee and looking rather exhausted.

“Erm, good morning,” Harry said awkwardly.

Voldemort tensed at first, then seemed to instantly pull himself together as he sat up straighter, projecting a sense of confidence and security that the man clearly didn’t actually feel. He raised a critical eyebrow at Harry, then said politely but tersely, “Good morning.” He nodded towards the counter at the half-full coffee pot, and added, “I made coffee, if you’d like some.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry said, heading for the coffee pot. He pulled his favorite mug out of the cabinet, a black one with a white silhouette of a stag that reminded him of his Patronus, and fixed himself a cup. Then he took his coffee over to the table and sat down across from Voldemort, who glanced curiously at him but remained silent and took a drink of his own coffee. “Right,” Harry said after a moment, “I know this is awkward as hell, but we need to talk.”

Voldemort tensed slightly, but his tone sounded nonchalant when he asked, “Breaking up with me already?”

Harry blushed slightly, then said, “Well, sort of.” At Voldemort’s raised eyebrow, he elaborated, “Look, last night was amazing once we actually got around to it—but I want to make it really, really clear that I’m not going to order or expect you in my bed anymore. I don’t want you to worry about that happening, because it won’t—we had to do it the once for the bond, but I’m not going to take advantage of you that way, all right? I promise.”

Voldemort gave Harry a long, scrutinizing look, then finally nodded.

Harry sighed, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, then said, “Good. All right, erm, I have some more questions about the bond too, if you don’t mind?”

Voldemort took a sip of his coffee, then waved one hand in a ‘go on’ gesture and said, “Fire away.”

“Well, er, how did you know about it in the first place? Have you used it before?”

Voldemort blinked, clearly having not expected that to be Harry’s first question. “I read about it extensively several years ago when I was researching different ways to bind my Death Eaters to me and ensure their loyalty. I’ve never used it on anyone—it was too involved and demanding for my purposes. On top of that, I found the consummation requirement repulsive. I discarded it as a possibility, and eventually developed the Dark Mark instead.”

“All right, so, erm—how exactly does it decide what to consider an order? Like if I said, ‘pass the salt’ would the bond count that an order even though it’s really more of a request?”

“It’s very literal,” Voldemort said, seeming a bit uncomfortable with the topic. “It would probably consider it an order.” He gestured to the salt shaker on the table and said, “Go ahead and try it.”

Harry cleared his throat, then said in a mild and undemanding tone, “Pass the salt.”

Voldemort frowned and immediately reached for the salt shaker as if Imperiused, sliding it across the table to Harry, who stared down at it for a moment. Voldemort said tensely, “Evidently it’s an order.”

Harry glanced up at him, then over at the innocuous pepper shaker. He thought for a moment, then carefully asked, “Will you please pass the pepper?”

Voldemort glanced up at him, blinked, then smirked and said, “You know, Harry, I’d really rather not.”

Harry smiled too, then said, “Questions are safe, then. Guess I’ll just have to pretend I’m on Jeopardy whenever I talk to you.”

“Jeopardy?”

“It’s a Muggle game show on the telly where people have to answer in the form of a question.”

“I see.”

They both went quiet and drank their coffee. After a long silent moment, Harry suddenly gasped as he remembered something and jumped to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair. Voldemort tensed up but stayed seated, wary eyes locked on Harry. 

“Oh my god,” Harry said, “I just realized I left Wormtail’s body back in Azkaban! What if it turns human again? Or if someone does that Animagus revealing spell? What if somebody sees the silver paw and figures it out?”

Voldemort huffed a laugh, then pulled something out of his own pocket and tossed it onto the kitchen table where it landed with a soft, squelchy thump. Wormtail.  
  
Harry stopped his barrage of panicked questions and felt relieved but also rather nauseous as he said, “How? Did you have him in your pocket this whole time?”

“Obviously,” Voldemort said, raising a critical eyebrow at Harry. “Did you think I knelt at your feet in front of the warden merely for the aesthetic? I grabbed Wormtail while I was down there and put a wandless Stasis Charm on the body, rather correctly assuming that you would forget to clean up after yourself.”

“So sorry for not being a murder expert like yourself,” Harry said sarcastically.

Voldemort shrugged one shoulder and said lightly, “Nobody’s perfect.”

Harry laughed, and said, “Berk. Thanks, though, for thinking ahead.” Harry sat back down and took another sip of his coffee, and added, “I think I just about had a heart attack.” Then he glanced at the disfigured rat on the table and his stomach turned. “Er, should we bury him, or?”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow at him, then answered, “If you’re feeling sentimental. Otherwise just banish it or burn it or toss it in the woods for the wildlife to eat—the body won’t return to human form after death.”

Harry started to reply, but a call from the vicinity of the living room fireplace interrupted him.

“Harry? It’s Kingsley—can I come through?”

“Shit,” Harry muttered, quickly pulling out his wand. “Get rid of Wormtail, I’ll stall him.” Harry pressed his wand into Voldemort’s hand, ignoring the surprised look on his face, and then hurried out into the living room. 

Kingsley’s head in the fireplace turned towards Harry at the sound of his footsteps, and he asked, “How are things going with your…charge?”

“Fine,” Harry said, walking right up to the fireplace. “Yeah, no problems. He picked out a room, and I’ll have to get him some proper clothes, but everything’s fine so far.”

Kingsley gave him a dubious look, then asked again, “May I come through? I have the papers for his new identity, and there are some things we need to discuss.”

“Erm, well,” Harry said hesitantly.

Voldemort chose that moment to appear in the doorway, leaning against it casually with his mug of coffee in his hand. “Oh,” he said mildly, “am I interrupting something?”

Harry raised an eyebrow at Voldemort, silently asking whether Wormtail had been disposed of. Voldemort gave him a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. Harry replied, “Er, no, it’s fine. The Minister was just about to come through,” Harry said, stepping back a few feet from the fireplace to make room. Voldemort meanwhile walked into the room to stand next to Harry.

The flames flared up higher and Kingsley stepped out of the fireplace, giving Voldemort a cautious look before turning towards Harry and handing him a folder. 

“His new identity,” Kingsley said.

Harry didn’t even open the folder, just handed it sideways to Voldemort, who casually handed Harry his coffee to hold in exchange. 

Voldemort flipped open the folder, then after a moment he said, “Thomas Smith? Are you kidding me?”

“No,” Kingsley said, “but keep reading.”

Voldemort glanced back down, then after a second he scoffed and said, “Muggleborn and Ravenclaw, employed by the Ministry as an Unspeakable…and you’ve made me twenty years younger as well.” He read a bit further, then laughed and said sarcastically, “And the icing on the cake is that I’m officially Harry Potter’s new bodyguard.” He glanced at Kingsley and then at Harry, and matter-of-factly said, “I’ll be needing my wand back—no competent bodyguard would walk around without one.”

Harry shrugged and said, “I was going to give it back anyway.”

Kingsley’s eyebrows went up at that. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

Harry shrugged and gestured towards the folder in Voldemort’s hands. “Are you sure this is? You know the bloody tabloid parasites are going to try to dig up everything they can on anyone who’s part of my life—is that cover identity going to hold up?”

Voldemort was the one to answer, “It likely will, actually—he’s made it as anonymous and unmemorable as possible, and the Unspeakable work will explain the largely unaccounted-for past. Unspeakables are sworn to absolute secrecy about their tasks, so I won’t be expected to explain where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing for the past few decades. Likewise, being Muggleborn accounts for the lack of Wizarding family or connections, and Ravenclaws are notoriously introverted for the most part so it won’t be strange for no one in my supposed class from Hogwarts to remember me.”

Harry blinked, then said, “All right, if you’re sure.”  
  
Kingsley gave Voldemort a long look, then said, “Glad we’re in agreement.” Then his expression shifted into something uncomfortable, and he turned to Harry to quietly say, “I did some further research on the Magical Conquest bond, and I learned about a rather disturbing aspect of it—I’d like to discuss it with you in private, Harry.”

“Oh, erm,” Harry said.

Voldemort glanced up and bluntly said, “If you’re referring to the consummation, we’ve already taken care of it.”

Harry blushed, Kingsley blinked a few times, and Voldemort casually reached over to reclaim his coffee cup from Harry’s hands and take a sip.

“Well,” Kingsley finally said. “All right, then.” He cleared his throat, then said, “Harry, I would still like to speak with you privately.”

Harry turned to give Voldemort an apologetic look, and said, “Could you, erm—?”

Voldemort cut him off with a sharp look and said in a blatantly fake, saccharine tone, “Of course, Master. I’ll just go make breakfast and let the free wizards talk, like a good little slave.” He turned abruptly and strode back into the kitchen.

Harry blinked and called after him, “I didn’t mean it like that—Voldemort!” He sighed and when he turned back to Kingsley it was to find a rather alarmed and curious look on his face.

“Is he always like that?” Kingsley asked.

Harry shrugged. “He’s touchy, but we’ve been getting along decently for the most part.”

Kingsley studied him for a moment and then carefully asked, “How did you know that the consummation was required?”

Harry blushed again and looked at the floor when he answered, “I didn’t. But Voldemort had apparently read about Magical Conquest a while back, so,” he awkwardly trailed off.

Kingsley narrowed his eyes and asked, “And you don’t find that suspicious at all? He could’ve manipulated the warden into getting you to invoke it—”

Harry interrupted, “All due respect, but does it really matter if he did?” Harry sighed, and said, “It’s done, and it’s permanent, and we’re both just going to have to live with it now. Throwing accusations around isn’t going to make things go any smoother.”

Kingsley gave Harry a long, concerned look then said, “Harry, it worries me how easily you defend him. If he’s taking advantage of your kindness—”

“I think he’s owed a little kindness after what he’s been through,” Harry said. To Kingsley’s stunned expression, Harry said, “Yeah, I never would’ve thought I’d say that about Voldemort either, but,” Harry glanced towards the kitchen, wondering whether he was in there eavesdropping, and lowered his voice a bit, “he’s spent three months with his magic bound, having guards beat the shit out of him every few days, not to mention the other stuff after his appearance changed.”

“How did his appearance change?” Kingsley asked. “I’ve been wondering about that.”

“Er, well, he told me that he looked like a monster before because of certain Dark rituals he did—but in Azkaban, he felt genuine remorse and it undid the effects of the ritual, gave him back his old looks,” Harry said, treading carefully without technically lying.

“Hmm,” Kingsley hummed, looking thoughtful. “Is that why you’re being so lenient? You believe he truly feels remorse for what he’s done to you and to the world?”

Harry shrugged and said, “That’s part of it, I suppose.” Kingsley’s raised eyebrow prompted him to elaborate, so he sighed and said, “The other part—I don’t talk about this very often, so please don’t repeat any of it.”

“Of course not,” Kingsley said quietly.

Harry sighed again and said, “My Muggle relatives, the Dursleys—Dumbledore left me with them because of the blood protections from my mother’s sacrifice. They didn’t want me there and I didn’t want to be there, but we were stuck with the situation because of the blood wards.” Harry paused, then said, “They were awful to me—it was mostly just neglect, but they did hit me sometimes when they lost their tempers or when I accidentally did magic. And they called me a worthless freak almost every day of my life. They made me cook and clean and do yard work from the time I was old enough to walk, and, well, essentially they treated me like a slave.” Harry glanced up to find a horrified, pitying look on Kingsley’s face.

“Harry—I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

Harry smiled humorlessly and said, “It’s fine. It’s in the past. My point is, I’m not the Dursleys.”

Kingsley blinked, then nodded solemnly. “I understand.” There was a heavy pause, then Kingsley cleared his throat and said, “Well, I suppose I’ll leave you to it—I will be checking in on the two of you occasionally, of course. I understand that you don’t particularly want to order him around, but I expect you to keep him in line—and don’t let him walk all over you either.” Kingsley paused and waited for Harry to give at least a perfunctory reply.

“All right,” Harry said.

Kingsley continued, “There haven’t been any announcements yet about your ‘bodyguard,’ but all of the background documentation is in place for whenever it’s necessary. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Of course. Thanks.”

Kingsley nodded, then stepped back through the floo.

Alone in the sitting room, Harry sighed again and ran a hand through his messy hair before steeling himself to go back in the kitchen and smooth things over with Voldemort.

He walked back into the kitchen, and was somewhat surprised to find Voldemort simply leaning against the wall right inside the open doorway with his arms crossed, not even trying to pretend he hadn’t been eavesdropping. 

Harry stopped short in the doorway and said, “Erm?” He wasn’t sure he could handle another serious or emotional conversation right now.

Voldemort simply looked at him for a long moment, then he pushed away from the wall and asked, “How do you like your eggs?” as he walked towards the stovetop.

“Sorry?” Harry asked, a bit thrown by the fact that Voldemort had made it obvious that he’d heard Harry’s conversation with Kingsley but he was very pointedly not asking about it.

“Scrambled? Fried? Over easy? An omelet, perhaps?” Voldemort suggested.

“You don’t have to cook for me, I have a house-elf.”

“You also have a slave.”

“I already told you I’m not going to treat you like one. What I have,” Harry said emphatically, “is a grumpy bodyguard who also happens to be my housemate.” 

Voldemort gave him an inscrutable look, then muttered, “I’ll show you grumpy,” startling a laugh out of Harry. Voldemort glanced over at Harry and cracked a reluctant smile as well. “Very well,” Voldemort said, sitting back down at the table. Harry sat down too. “Call your elf, then. I haven’t had a proper meal in months.”

Harry’s smile faded slightly, and he called, “Kreacher?”

The house-elf popped into the kitchen, glancing warily at Voldemort before asking Harry, “Master called?”

Harry suddenly realized the potential this had to get ugly—he had somehow completely forgotten about the whole Voldemort using Kreacher as a lab rat for his horrible potion thing—and he was supremely grateful that Kreacher evidently hadn’t recognized Voldemort’s new (old) look. “Yes, Kreacher—this is, er, Tom. He’s going to be living here now, and we’d appreciate some breakfast. Nothing too rich or heavy—just eggs and toast, a bit of fresh fruit maybe.”

“As Master wishes,” Kreacher said, with another suspicious glance at Voldemort. He popped away, returned seconds later with two heaping plates of food, and then disappeared again.

Voldemort gave Harry a curious look, and Harry said, “Yeah, erm, don’t ever tell him who you really are. He used to belong to Regulus Black—you tested that horrible cave potion on him and left him to the Inferi.”

Voldemort blinked and asked, “How did he survive?”

Harry smiled grimly and said, “Because Regulus had ordered him to return after whatever task you used him for. So he returned.”

“I see.” Voldemort seemed to ponder it for a moment before drawing Harry’s wand and casting a poison detection spell over first his own plate and then Harry’s. “Just in case,” he said to Harry’s concerned look. He placed the wand down in the center of the table, then finally picked up a fork and dug in to his breakfast.

Harry left the wand on the table between them for the time being, then cleared his throat and awkwardly said, “If you haven’t eaten for a while, it’s best to start slow. This is not an order, but you probably shouldn’t finish more than half of that plate.”

Voldemort gave him a pointed look, then said, “Yes, I know the drill—I lived in a Muggle orphanage during wartime rationing.”

Harry blinked, feeling foolish because he’d known that of course, and he said, “Right.”

Voldemort didn’t look away, and after a moment he asked, “Your relatives starved you as well?”

Harry stared down at his plate and shrugged one shoulder. He was really, really not in the mood to talk about it.

There was a long silence before Voldemort said thoughtfully, “You know, if you were to order me to torture a specific person or persons, logically I think it would supersede the first order not to harm anyone—as a one-time-exception, of course.”

Harry blinked and looked up at him. “What?”

Voldemort shrugged casually. “Just a thought.” He held eye contact with Harry for a moment, then pointedly said, “Let me know if you ever want to test that premise.”

“Right,” Harry said, a bit stunned. On the one hand he was horrified, but on the other hand—Voldemort offering to torture Harry’s abusers was evidently his idea of a gift. It was sort of touching, in a Dark Lord kind of way. “Erm, thanks for the offer.”

Voldemort nodded magnanimously and went back to eating his eggs. Harry did the same, and the two of them ate in an only slightly awkward silence. 

About ten minutes later, an owl tapped at the kitchen window, and Harry got up to let it in. He gave the owl a treat, feeling a pang of grief for Hedwig, then he took the letter to the table to read as the owl flew away. 

The letter was from Hermione—after the first few lines, Harry sighed and realized that he hadn’t been as subtle as he thought about his post-Horcrux breakdown, and Hermione had finally decided to call him out on it. The letter was full of phrases like ‘we’re worried about you’ and ‘acting different’ and ‘you can tell Ron and I anything’ and ‘just want to help.’

“Bad news?” Voldemort asked from across the table.

Harry shrugged and absently held the letter out towards the other man. 

Voldemort raised an eyebrow but took it and quickly skimmed the contents before glancing back up at Harry and giving him a questioning look. “Dare I ask what has you worrying your friends this much, Harry?”

Something finally gave, and Harry felt like a dam had broken on all of the things he’d been denying and locking inside himself for months. He found himself venting, “Well I couldn’t exactly tell them that I missed being your bloody Horcrux, could I? Or that I’ve felt empty every day since the battle? Or that my magic was out of control? Or that I missed speaking and understanding Parseltongue? Or that I didn’t feel like myself anymore without my connection to you?”

Voldemort listened with a rapt expression, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. “Harry,” he said softly when Harry finally paused for a breath, but Harry continued.

“Should I have told them that I didn’t even make it three days before wishing the Horcrux was still there? Or that I spent weeks on end in the Black library looking for any hints at all on Horcrux creation? Or that I paid an ungodly amount of money to a very shady bookseller to finally get the right one with the complete instructions? Should I have told them that I tracked down Wormtail and kept him in an Unbreakable cage as a rat for over a month because I knew you would need someone to murder? Or that I was planning to throw my fame around for the first time in my life to get a visit with you in Azkaban? Or, here’s the real kicker—should I have told them that my contingency plan, if I couldn’t get the Horcrux back, was to use Unforgivables on whoever got in my way and get myself thrown into Azkaban, just to be closer to you because maybe that would be enough to stop feeling so hollow?”

Voldemort looked stunned and slightly unnerved for a moment before expertly masking it. “Harry,” he said again, but he seemed to be at a rare loss for words.

Harry forced a smile and confessed, “Truth is, I’m not even angry about this—about us being stuck together. I hate the slavery part of it, but other than that?” Harry hesitated but decided that he might as well get it all out in the open and lay himself bare, “This feels…right. You and me, connected. It’s always been you and me.” He paused and glanced up to meet Voldemort’s eyes, then smiled and finished, “And now it always will be.”

Voldemort’s expression remained unreadable and he didn’t say anything but he didn’t look away either, and Harry chose to believe that that meant something.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, next time might possibly feature some of Voldemort’s POV, if it works and feels right :)
> 
> Also, if you’re interested, I have a twitter account for my HP fics, where I give heads-ups about updates, occasionally have polls, vent, flail, etc. If you’re interested, it’s @eidrokcuf (after my other Harrymort fic The Mirror of Eidrokcuf, but I post pretty equally about all of my WIPs)
> 
> As always, comments and con-crit are very welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there’s another brief discussion of past Drarry, and a mention of hypothetical Snarry. I’m not tagging for them, but in case you hate either ship consider yourself warned. Full disclosure, I ship both, but they aren’t going to really be part of this fic except as a side note—they’re literally just mentioned in conversation.
> 
> Also I’ve had a really rough time emotionally due to RL since the end of February. I was literally in the room while a close relative died over the span of 3 days from untreatable organ failure, and around the same time one of my older cats had to have emergency surgery and not long after that she developed diabetes, and I’m very lucky and grateful to still have my job and paycheck during this covid-19 pandemic but everything at work has been turned upside down too. So things have been hectic and awful and painful and stressful and I haven’t been in the right headspace to write very much. But please know that I won’t abandon any of my fics and I absolutely fucking cherish every comment and kudo that I get—they really brighten my day when things are otherwise shitty, and I love hearing your thoughts and feedback.
> 
> [insert obligatory covid-19 PSA to stay home unless it’s an essential trip, wear a mask in public (no it’s not complete protection but it’s better than nothing and it also keeps YOUR germs in), sanitize/wash your hands often, don’t touch your face, keep your distance from other people, don’t go anywhere if you have a fever or feel sick, etc. Please use common sense and conscientiousness and good hygiene to keep yourself and others safe.]
> 
> Lastly, fair warning that this chapter is a bit NSFW ;) but don’t get excited about the new tags—I just added Bottom!Harry and Top!Voldemort because EVENTUALLY they’ll get there. Not in this chapter though. But still…
> 
> Enjoy!

Harry Potter was not behaving as expected. 

Back in that visiting room in Azakaban, Voldemort had been very careful to keep his reactions and his emotions concealed, but Harry had shocked him beyond measure when he had practically demanded that Voldemort make him a Horcrux again. It was not at all what he’d expected the boy to say. Voldemort had expected gloating, or recrimination, or angry words, or physical punishment—still immensely shaken from his encounter with that piece of filth guard Anderson the day before, Voldemort had jumped a bit too quickly to the conclusion that Harry was there to try the same thing, despite it going against everything he knew of the boy’s character.

Once he’d recovered his wits and realized the opportunity in front of him, Voldemort had thought quickly and seized the only chance he had at getting out of Azkaban—Magical Conquest. The inherent proximity requirement would mean he would have to stay close to Harry—even if Harry ordered him elsewhere, such orders were necessarily temporary and the bond would demand that he generally stay near Harry or within the boundaries of his home. It would free him from Azkaban, despite the Minister’s misunderstanding that Harry could order him to stay there permanently. 

It wasn’t ideal by any means—in truth, the thought of enslaving himself was abhorrent and terrifying, but the thought of remaining in Azkaban with his magic bound and destined to become a fuck-toy for the guards was far more hopeless and intolerable. He knew none of his surviving followers would be coming to rescue him—the most loyal and most powerful were all dead now, and he was alone. With Harry Potter as his master, even if the boy one day embraced his vengeful side, Voldemort would at least have a chance at a decent existence. 

So he’d bargained, and he’d manipulated, and he’d secured Harry Potter as his master, and he’d made him into a Horcrux again, and against all odds Harry had been kind and respectful and he’d gotten him out of Azkaban. He’d allowed him to keep his magic with only a few restrictions. He’d turned the dreaded consummation—which Voldemort had been fully prepared to dissociate his way through, pretending it was a meaningless but necessary part of a ritual—into something mind-blowing and mutually pleasurable. He’d sucked Voldemort’s cock voluntarily, for Salazar’s sake. Then he’d gotten offended somehow and kicked Voldemort out of bed, but the next morning Harry had been back to his shockingly considerate and friendly behavior, and he’d assured Voldemort that he wouldn’t be treating him like an actual slave or demanding any sexual favors from him. Voldemort had gotten somewhat of an explanation after eavesdropping on Harry’s conversation with the Minister, but then Harry had gone and shocked him yet again by unloading his feelings about losing the Horcrux and about his apparent obsession with Voldemort. 

‘It’s always been you and me…and now it always will be.’

That was…unnerving, to say the least, although Voldemort did his best to hide his unease. Harry had reminded him uncomfortably of both Bellatrix and Barty for a moment, and Voldemort was still trying to process the fact that Harry Potter had missed him—had missed their connection, had missed being his Horcrux. It seemed inconceivable, especially for it to have grown to the point of obsession so quickly. Voldemort had dealt with obsessed and even infatuated followers before—that was nothing new—but none of them had ever held complete and uncontestable power over him the way Harry now did. None of them had been his master. This situation was… especially dangerous.

Voldemort kept his expression carefully neutral after Harry’s confession, wary of setting him off with anything even remotely resembling rejection, but equally wary of conveying anything that could be interpreted as encouragement. 

After a moment of careful consideration, Voldemort gave Harry a slightly patronizing smile across the kitchen table and said neutrally, “ ’Always’ is a long time to be bound to someone immortal, Harry.”

Harry blinked, and the half-manic look in his eyes quickly faded into concern. “Right,” he said, glancing down at the tabletop before asking, “What happens to you when I die? Do you go free, or do I have to pick a new master in my will so you don’t get stuck with some abusive arsehole, or do I order you ahead of time to go to someone specific—?”

Voldemort, thrown yet again by Harry’s consideration towards him, interrupted, “If you die, I die.” Ignoring Harry’s shocked look, Voldemort elaborated, “I was only being facetious yesterday when I said it was my duty to protect you—the bond forces nothing of the sort. It’s only common sense and self-preservation dictating that I protect you, since my life is tied to your own.”

“What exactly does the bond force?” Harry asked, looking uncomfortable.

“Proximity. It also won’t allow me to harm you, and it enforces your direct orders. Other than that, it has no influence on my thoughts or actions.”

“Good,” Harry said quietly, looking down at his lap again. “That’s…good.” He was quiet for a long moment before asking, “But how does the Horcrux factor into all of this? Isn’t it sort of a safety net for us both? In…in the Forest that day, your Killing Curse destroyed the Horcrux, not me.”

“True,” Voldemort said, biting back a flare of anger. “But only because I was the one to cast it. If anyone else had hit you with the Killing Curse, it would’ve killed you instead. Afterwards, if the Horcrux were strong enough, it would’ve become conscious and then it would’ve revived your body and taken it over. Otherwise, your corpse would’ve remained a Horcrux and been immune to decay.”

“That’s…disturbing,” Harry said.

“Yes,” Voldemort agreed, “particularly since there’s no one left to resurrect me. Your body being a Horcrux would tether me to this world but I would likely remain a formless spirit as before. It’s better than dying, but it’s not a pleasant existence.”

“Right, well. I’ll just make sure to never die, then,” Harry said in a wry and half-sarcastic voice.

“Do try,” Voldemort replied in the same tone. 

The boy, after all, didn’t need to know that death would sever the slave bond. This was ancient magic, in use before Horcruxes were ever invented, and Voldemort was confident that the spellcrafting and the logistics of the bond wouldn’t account for the possibility of the slave coming back to life. Harry also didn’t need to know that as a spirit, Voldemort could probably manage to possess and permanently take over Harry’s corpse even without a resurrection ritual if it were still a Horcrux. He didn’t need to know that Voldemort was, in fact, counting on this eventuality to one day regain his freedom. 

For now, however, he would bide his time. Earn his master’s trust. Become his confidant. Learn his personality and mannerisms forwards and backwards so as to convincingly pass as him in the future. Because of the bond and his orders, he couldn’t orchestrate an accident or manipulate Harry into a lethal situation—but he could wait for the right opportunity to present itself and then simply…not intervene. And if all went well, Voldemort could someday put all of the power and influence that came with the name Harry Potter to good use. He would be unstoppable.

Voldemort gave the boy a hint of a smirk, and received a blinding smile in return. Voldemort’s smirk faltered a bit at the boy’s enthusiasm—he was going to have to be so very careful. It would be a complicated balancing act to earn Harry’s trust and affection without giving the wrong kind of encouragement to the person who held complete control over him. Harry had promised that he wouldn’t abuse him or demand sexual favors, and Voldemort could tell that he’d meant it…for now. Harry hadn’t made any kind of magically binding vow, however, and Voldemort had never been one to simply trust people at their word. 

The boy’s obsession was beyond concerning, and Harry had obviously enjoyed himself during the consummation—if Voldemort wasn’t careful, Harry’s obsession could mutate into infatuation, and then Voldemort would be even more powerless than he’d been in Azkaban. In Azkaban, at least, he could fight back, he could (and had) hurt his attacker. With Harry, all he could do was say no and hope the boy would listen—the bond would prevent him from hurting Harry, even in self-defense, and if Harry gave him an order he would have no choice but to comply. The thought of being overpowered in such a way made him simultaneously want to stab someone and vomit.

Forcing his expression into something neutral, Voldemort stood from the dining table and said curtly, “I would like my wand back now.” He couldn’t use it against Harry, of course, and he didn’t need it for a great many spells but he still felt rather incomplete without it, and having it back would likely ease some of his anxiety.

Harry blinked up at him and said, “Right, of course.” Harry stood up as well, gave Voldemort a curious, concerned look, then said, “It’s in my room, if you want to, er,” he trailed off but gestured towards the doorway after pocketing his own wand almost absently.

Voldemort nodded. Harry gave him another puzzled look, then bit his lip before heading for the door and gesturing for Voldemort to follow.

Following Harry up the stairs and into the boy’s bedroom inevitably brought back memories of the previous night when he’d marched up the stairs as if going to his doom, expecting pain and humiliation and powerlessness. Instead, he’d received consideration and comfort and affection and pleasure. He’d been treated like a lover instead of a slave, and by someone who had every right and reason to want to make him suffer. He was still trying to wrap his head around that. It felt rather unreal that just last night he’d had sex with the boy he’d tried for so many years to kill. He’d been kissed and touched and fucked and sucked off by Harry Potter, in that very bed.

Harry cleared his throat and Voldemort glanced over, realizing that he’d been staring at the bed. Harry had dug Voldemort’s yew wand out of a dresser drawer, and was holding it out like a peace offering. Voldemort abruptly reached out and snatched it away in a momentary loss of composure. 

With his familiar, perfect wand back in his hand Voldemort managed to calm himself after a moment, and he glanced back up at Harry. The boy was giving him that concerned look again—Harry looked over at the bed then back at Voldemort and awkwardly said, “Er, I’m sorry if I hurt you or anything, you know, last night. I—”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Voldemort interrupted. Confused the hell out of him for certain, but Harry hadn’t hurt him. 

“Good. Erm, I’m also sorry for throwing you out like I did.”

Voldemort stared back at Harry for a moment, then replied in cutting and derisive tone, “Don’t be. Did you actually think I would want to stay and cuddle?” Harry’s eyes darted away towards the floor, looking guilty, and Voldemort added coldly, “Like I said, it was necessary for the bond—and like you said, it was technically rape,” he cringed internally as he said it—he still refused to see it as such, but he knew saying it would unsettle Harry and make him drop the topic. “Let’s neither of us dwell on it, and just move on as if it never happened. All right?”

Harry’s eyes stayed on the ground and he crossed his arms, seeming to fold in on himself. “Yeah, all right. Whatever you want,” he said quietly, guiltily.

Voldemort refrained from smiling as he pressed his advantage—surely it didn’t count as manipulation if Harry handed him such an easy opening like that? “What I want,” he said, “is some real clothing of my own choosing instead of these prison rags, a reasonable expectation of privacy whenever I’m in the bedroom I’ve chosen, and a stipend for owl-ordering books and the like.”

Harry finally looked up at him, frowning, and after a moment his expression hardened a bit and he said, “You don’t have to make me feel guilty and stomp all over my conscience to get things from me. I would’ve given you all that if you’d just asked.”

“I didn’t make you feel anything,” Voldemort said in a bored, patronizing tone. “And I did ask, just now.”

Harry gave him a tight, forced-looking smile, then said, “Fine. Consider it done.”

Voldemort nodded towards him and said, “Consider me grateful.”

Harry raised an eyebrow and said, “That’s not actually a ‘thank you,’ you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Voldemort said. He’d been trying to reign in the anxiety that had been slowly creeping in ever since he found himself back in Harry’s bedroom, but his control slipped and he snapped, “If you’re wanting me to bow down and kiss your feet in gratitude, you’ll have to order it, Master,” he sneered the title at Harry, and almost immediately regretted issuing the challenge when he saw the way Harry’s expression hardened.

“No thanks, that’s your kink, not mine,” Harry snapped back. 

Voldemort scoffed and said, “It’s not a kink, you imbecilic child.” He stopped himself from explaining that it was a method of reinforcing dominance over his followers through public degradation—he didn’t want to give the boy ideas, after all.

“I’m not a child,” Harry argued. “And if I was a child, you’re the one who had sex with me last night—what’s that make you?”

Voldemort gave him a cold smile and said, “I’m fairly certain I’m still the slave who was forced to let his master fuck him.”

Harry’s temper exploded, along with the mirror above his dresser on the other side of the room, and he shouted, “You’re the one who forced this on me! You made me agree to it without telling me what the hell Magical Conquest was—you’re the one who knew we’d have to have sex!”

“I didn’t make you agree to it,” Voldemort said calmly, feeling a thrill of power—he was the one in control of himself, he was the one causing Harry to lose his composure. “I simply made it the price of becoming my Horcrux again. It was your choice to agree.”

“Shut up!” Harry shouted, having finally had enough. The boy’s face was flushed with anger, and he was breathing heavily. He’d drawn his wand but didn’t seem to realize it. Voldemort clutched his own wand tighter as Harry’s order forced him into silence. “You knew I needed it back—you knew I wouldn’t refuse the bond and let you die—and now you’re trying to use that against me? Calling me a rapist after I did everything I could to make it good for you? Go fuck yourself! Get out of my sight!” Harry waved his wand towards the door, which banged open against the wall.

Voldemort shot a betrayed and furious glare at him before the collar of runes around his neck tightened and burned and forced him to comply.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Harry watched Voldemort storm out of the room and slam the door behind him after throwing a murderous glare at Harry. What did the bastard expect—that Harry would just roll over and take his verbal abuse and misplaced blame? Harry had had enough of that from the Dursleys for a lifetime.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, wondering how things kept going so wrong. He was trying to make this situation as bearable as possible for both of them, but Voldemort had just kept pushing and needling him until Harry’s temper broke loose. Harry sighed, staring at the floor and taking deep breaths to calm his temper. 

This was not how he’d wanted things to go—once again, he’d let his temper sabotage the little bit of progress he thought he’d made with Voldemort. Harry sighed again and glanced over his shoulder at the mess of broken glass across the room, then pointed his wand at it and cast a Reparo. The glass shards swirled into the air and then reconfigured themselves into a mirror, and Harry smiled even through his frustration when his magic worked the way it was supposed to—not overpowered, not underpowered, not having a completely different effect than intended—all thanks to being Voldemort’s Horcrux again. With the mirror repaired, Harry put his wand away and put his head back into his hands as his mind wandered back onto the topic of Voldemort.

He wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed, but it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes after Voldemort had left when his door slammed open and the man stormed back in. Harry reflexively jumped to his feet in shock and opened his mouth to reprimand him, but Voldemort strode right up to him and flung his hand out, and a splash of something warm and wet hit Harry across the face and clung to his skin.

“Oi! What the—?” Harry reached up to wipe the substance off of his cheek, and his hand came away with something white and very familiar. He blinked. “Did you just throw come at me?” Harry asked in a shrill voice, thoroughly shocked.

Voldemort glared murderously at him but remained pointedly silent, and Harry recalled that he’d yelled at him to shut up at some point. Harry tersely said, “You can talk now—”

Harry had barely gotten the permission to speak out when Voldemort made an abrupt gesture and wandlessly cast a Silencio on Harry. Harry’s eyes went wide for a second, before his brain caught up and helpfully reasoned out that silencing him wasn’t technically harming him, and was evidently allowed by the slave bond.

“For the record,” Voldemort said, his voice colder than Harry had ever heard it, and his eyes conversely blazing with fury, “the bond considers ‘go fuck yourself’ an order.”

Harry blinked, then opened his mouth to offer a horrified apology, but he was still under the Silencio and nothing came out.

Voldemort took a few steps closer, slowly, threateningly. Then he said, “For all your protests and righteous indignation over being called a rapist, you certainly didn’t hesitate to order me into a sexual act to humiliate me.” He gave Harry a cold smile, then said, “Congratulations on lowering yourself to Anderson and the warden’s level, Master.” The title, as always, was sneered sarcastically.

Voldemort turned to leave. Harry took out his wand and nonverbally cast the countercharm to the silencing spell, then called after him, “Wait—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean for that to happen—it wasn’t an order, I was just angry.”

“The bond thought otherwise,” Voldemort hissed, turning to face him again.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again, daring to meet Voldemort’s eyes and hoping he would see the truthfulness in Harry’s apology.

Voldemort held his gaze, then said, “I don’t care. Stay away from me and don’t speak to me again.”

Voldemort turned to leave again, and Harry felt something inexplicably close to panic at the prospect. “Wait,” he called out again. Voldemort turned and shot him an irritated glare—oh, right, ‘wait’ was an order. Damn it. “Er, I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“We’ve established that,” Voldemort said.

“Right. But, just—will you let me make it up to you?”

“How do you propose to do that?” Voldemort asked, sounding bored and disdainful.

Harry thought for a moment, then recklessly said, “You can order me to do something humiliating—anything—and I’ll do it. Even if it’s something sexual. Fair’s fair.” Harry swallowed and then nervously waited for Voldemort’s response.

Voldemort stared at him with a deceptively blank expression for a long moment before finally ordering, “Lick my come off of your hand—all of it—slowly.”

Harry blinked, then blushed, then slowly lifted his left hand—which was still smeared with some of the come he’d wiped from his face—up to his mouth. He held eye contact with Voldemort while he licked his hand clean of the bitter taste, slowly, laving his palm before sucking each finger into his mouth separately whether they had come on them or not and pulling off of each with an obscene pop. Harry swallowed nervously again, although his face was flushed from more than just embarrassment now—Merlin help him, but he didn’t find this too terribly humiliating, and he was actually getting turned on by it. Instead of calling his promise fulfilled, Harry boldly asked, “What next?”

Voldemort blinked, seeming surprised for a moment before schooling his expression and saying, in a low but steady voice, “Now my hand.” He held out his right hand, which looked slick and had small traces of come still clinging to his palm. Harry stepped closer, right up into Voldemort’s space, and reached for his hand. “No,” Voldemort said, a hint of a smirk on his lips, “kneel.”

Harry bit back the sarcastic ‘yes My Lord’ he wanted to throw at him, and knelt. He reached for Voldemort’s hand again, and then gave it the same treatment he’d given his own—perhaps with a bit more enthusiasm. A subtle glance up told Harry his efforts were appreciated—despite coming so recently, the subtle bulge in Voldemort’s trousers showed that he was already starting to get hard again. Harry’s own cock had gone from half-mast to rock hard in record time. Harry sucked the last of Voldemort’s long elegant fingers clean, pulled off with another deliberate pop, then licked his lips and glanced up to meet Voldemort’s eyes again. “What next?” Harry asked again in a breathy voice.

Voldemort seemed strangely conflicted and didn’t respond right away. Harry thought it was fairly obvious what came next, and surprisingly he was more than willing to suck Voldemort’s cock again under the circumstances—but the order needed to come from Voldemort, that was the whole point, so Harry patiently waited. Well, perhaps not so patiently—he licked his lips again, and leaned slightly closer to the bulge in Voldemort’s trousers, and after a long enough silence had passed, Harry repeated, “What next?”

Voldemort blinked, then gave Harry a hint of a smirk and reached down to run one hand through Harry’s already-messy hair. “Next,” Voldemort said leadingly, and Harry was already leaning closer to that tantalizing bulge, reaching up for the trouser button and zip. But Voldemort took a step back and simultaneously tightened his grip on Harry’s hair, pulling just enough to force him to look up without actually hurting him. Voldemort’s expression was cold again, and he said, “Next, you will keep your mouth shut until you learn to think before you speak to me. And the next time you have a temper tantrum, you’ll remove yourself from my presence to prevent any more unintentional orders. Understood?”

Harry blinked, a bit stunned by the abruptness of the change in mood, then he swallowed, nodded, and said, “Understood.” Voldemort released his grip on Harry’s hair and stepped away. Harry quickly called out, “I really am sorry.” He wasn’t quite brave enough to add that he’d still really like to make it up to him, in case it came across as an order or coercion or something equally unsavory. 

Voldemort gave him an appraising look—and Harry knew he must look like a wanton mess, on his knees with his hair mussed and his cock tenting his trousers, practically offering himself up—then Voldemort said, “That really doesn’t change a thing.” 

With that he walked out, leaving Harry alone with his guilt and arousal and the feeling that he still owed Voldemort some kind of recompense.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Voldemort made his way back to the room he’d claimed for himself, berating himself the entire way—he’d been incredibly tempted to ‘order’ Harry to suck his cock again. The boy was brilliant at it, and willing, and in need of something to keep his treacherous mouth occupied—but. But. Harry had obviously been aroused as well, and would surely expect Voldemort to do something about it. Harry could play pretend all he wanted and take ‘orders’ from Voldemort, but ultimately he was the master and could order Voldemort to finish anything sexual that was initiated—perhaps even accidentally. Better not to tempt fate—he’d taken it further than prudent already, by teasing the boy sexually after provoking his temper so blatantly. Gods, that had been stupid as well, but it had felt so damned good to be in control of the situation for a change, even if it had ended with an accidental order forcing him to toss himself off.

He sighed and sat down on his bed, ignoring his lingering arousal—he was only half-hard and it should go away on its own before long, especially since he’d already come once. The glimpse he’d gotten of Harry’s tented trousers on the way out, however, told him that Harry wouldn’t be able to ignore his own predicament—he would be forced to deal with it. 

Walking away was equal parts revenge and a test to see whether or not Harry would keep his word when pressed. Voldemort pushed away a stab of irrational fear that Harry would come after him and demand to fuck him again—he felt moderately confident that he wouldn’t, and he knew Harry wasn’t actually anything like Anderson or the warden. But it was better to know for sure now whether his trust would be betrayed—better to get it over with rather than be lulled into complacency and then be surprised in the future.

He comforted himself with the thought that he’d left Harry fully hard and so worked up that he would have to address it. He chuckled, laid back on his bed to try to relax, and muttered, “Next, go fuck yourself, Harry.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  
Harry didn’t even bother moving to the bed after Voldemort left—he absently waved his wand at the door to close it, then unceremoniously shoved his trousers down and took his cock in hand. He stroked it hard, using his precum to ease the slide, and he brought himself off almost embarrassingly fast, still kneeling on the floor.

“Fuck,” he muttered afterwards, running his clean hand through his hair as he caught his breath. Before the afterglow of orgasm had a chance to wear off, he brought his other hand up to his mouth and once again licked it clean of come—he closed his eyes, remembering the sound of Voldemort’s voice and the intensity in his eyes as he’d stared down at Harry, remembering the taste of his lips from last night and the indescribable rightness of being inside of him and the way both of their nerves had seemed to slowly light up and simmer in pleasure at the point of contact whenever they touched for very long.

“Stop it,” he muttered to himself. He knew this was dangerous—he knew that he tended to get over-attached to people he slept with rather quickly. It had happened with Draco and then again with Ginny, the former breaking things off rather cruelly once he realized it because he’d never planned or expected any kind of future with Harry, and the latter growing alienated and more and more wary of the way Harry had been after the battle until their arguments had warranted her asking to ‘take a break’ which became growing apart while Harry secretly obsessed over getting the Horcrux back.

And now it was happening again with Voldemort—although, well, this wasn’t even remotely the same thing, was it? Voldemort had made it clear from the start that it meant nothing to him, so much so that he’d called it ‘an unfortunate part of a ritual’ and he didn’t even consider it to be sex. It had been painfully obvious that Voldemort hadn’t wanted it—even though Harry had coaxed him into relaxing and participating, even though Harry had made sure Voldemort enjoyed it—he hadn’t wanted it. Hadn’t wanted Harry. “Stop it,” he snapped at himself again, running an agitated hand through his hair. “It doesn’t fucking matter.”

Still on his knees, he awkwardly pulled his pants and trousers back on, forced himself to stand up, and then threw himself down on the bed in a bit of a strop. He turned onto his side and pulled the sheet over his head, not caring that he’d already eaten breakfast or that it was well past time to be up—his days of living how he was ‘supposed to’ and following arbitrary schedules were over, and if he wanted a post-wank post-emotionally-exhausting-interaction nap then he was damn well going to take one. 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Harry woke again a few hours later, squinting against the bright midday sunlight glaring through the window. He reached for the sheet to pull it over his head again, and would’ve been happy to go back to sleep and forget the world for a while, but then he remembered that he wasn’t alone. Voldemort was somewhere in the house, undoubtedly still cross with him about earlier. And Voldemort still needed real clothes, and—what else had he asked for? Books? Harry sighed and sat up, reaching for his wand and casting a quick Tempus—it was half past one in the afternoon. As he stood up and stretched he had the idle thought that Voldemort had become the reason he got out of bed in the morning, and to his half-asleep brain the observation seemed much more profound than it probably really was. 

He stifled a yawn and stepped out into the hallway, glancing briefly toward the end of the hall that held Voldemort’s chosen room. He decided right away not to knock on the door—Voldemort had asked for privacy, so Harry wouldn’t bother him there unless it was something urgent. Instead, he headed downstairs and checked the kitchen (empty), the formal dining room (empty), the main sitting room (also empty), before finally finding Voldemort in the library poring over an array of books spread out on a table. Evidently he’d heard Harry’s approach, because he glanced up and gave him a look that wasn’t quite a glare, raising a questioning eyebrow and managing to look condescending and reproachful at the same time.

Harry swallowed, then decided to try to lighten the mood a bit by saying, “Erm, hello,” deliberately reminiscent of their meeting back at Azkaban.

It didn’t work—if anything, it had the opposite effect. Voldemort’s expression shifted into outright disdain before he turned back to his books without a word.

Harry sighed and walked over to the table and sat down across from Voldemort, who tensed slightly but otherwise ignored Harry’s presence. Harry gathered his courage, then said bluntly, “Right, so—how do we make sure that never ever happens again, with the, er, accidental orders?”

Voldemort finally looked up and snapped, “I already told you—simply think before you speak. It’s not difficult…for most people.”

Harry ignored the insult and asked, “What if I told you to only obey orders that specifically start with the words ‘I order you’?”

Voldemort gave him a flat look and said, “Clearly you never took Ancient Runes class, because the answer to that is right in front of your face.”

Harry glanced down at the inky collar of runes around Voldemort’s neck and shrugged, conceding defeat. “Can you explain it to me, then?”

Voldemort sighed and gave him an irritated look, then conjured a mirror and held it up to his neck before pointing to a specific series of five interlocked runes on his skin and explaining hastily, “These bind my will to yours,” he moved his finger down the tattooed collar of symbols to a different set of three runes, “and these are what make the interpretation so mindlessly literal. It won’t recognize the nuance of your suggested solution—the imperatives to obey you and not harm you are woven into the bond itself and take precedence over all other orders. Therefore I can’t obey orders that conflict with those two directives, and I can’t disobey something that the bond considers an order.”

“So I can’t just order you to not follow certain orders?” Harry summarized, thinking he understood but wanting to be sure.

“No.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Harry said, which earned him a tiny huff of amusement from Voldemort. 

“Indeed,” Voldemort said, vanishing the hand mirror.

Harry blurted out as it occurred to him, “You were reading those backwards in the mirror.”

“Yes, and?”

“Well, just, maybe you read them wrong?”

“I did not.” Voldemort glared briefly at the suggestion before raising his wand and writing—on the air and in flames, as his diary self had—a perfect replica of the line of runes that adorned the front of his neck. And he’d written them backwards, so that facing Harry they read the right way.

“All right,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck, “point made, you’re brilliant and can read and write backwards.” Voldemort blinked, and Harry continued, “Your diary self did that trick too, you know.”

“Did he?”

“Mmhm. Wrote out your full name in flames in the air, then rearranged the letters to spell ‘I am Lord Voldemort’.”

Voldemort’s lips twitched in the tiniest hint of a smile. “And were you suitably impressed by it then?”

“Oh yeah,” Harry said, before letting out a nervous laugh and adding, “Actually, I was pretty impressed in general. Honestly had a bit of a crush on Tom Riddle before I knew he was you—my first real crush, actually... I’ve, er, never told anyone that.”

Voldemort blinked again and his expression went unreadable and he didn’t say anything.

“Great,” Harry muttered, looking away as his stomach sank, “now I’ve made it weird again… I’m sorry,” he added in a louder voice as he stood to leave. 

He made it halfway to the door when Voldemort called after him, “My first crush was Abraxas Malfoy.”

Harry stopped and turned back around to face him, both confused and a bit hopeful that he hadn’t put Voldemort off too horribly—he was making a point of continuing the conversation, and Harry figured that had to be a good thing. “What?” Harry asked.

Voldemort looked only mildly uncomfortable. He lifted his hand to casually study his fingernails as he added, “He was a third year when I started Hogwarts. Didn’t give me the time of day, naturally, since I was poor and an orphan and presumed to be a Mud—Muggleborn, at first.” Voldemort said, briefly flicking his eyes up towards Harry as he corrected himself. He continued, “When I merely attempted to introduce myself, he insulted my parentage and walked away. He changed his tune eventually, of course, after I’d made a name for myself and after he’d joined my ranks.” Voldemort chuckled and said, “Evidently he’d noticed my schoolboy crush—he had the gall to tease me about it after a meeting one night and then he propositioned me… I turned him down and Crucio’d him until he pissed himself.”

Harry snorted out a surprised laugh, then covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh my god, that’s horrible,” he said, then he laughed again despite feeling guilty about it. Still fighting a smile, he glanced at Voldemort and said, “It must run in the family then—Malfoys being gits to blokes and then propositioning them.”

At that, Voldemort glanced up and met Harry’s eyes, quirking a curious eyebrow. “Oh? Do tell.”

Harry’s smile faltered a bit, because his feelings were still a bit of a mess about it. “Well. Draco, you know—he was a twat to me for years, but sixth year he was sneaking around all the time, and I knew he was up to something so I might’ve stalked him a little bit and one day he caught me at it, and—things happened,” he finished vaguely, blushing. ‘Things’ being a passionate and clandestine relationship that Harry, despite all logic, had actually wanted to work. It was still a sore spot and he wished now that he hadn’t even brought it up—but, like the Gryffindor he was, he’d seen an opportunity to bond over similar experiences and he’d pounced on it without thinking it through.

Voldemort’s eyebrow went higher as he repeated, “Things…happened?” in a slow sardonic tone that reminded Harry painfully of Snape. Harry blinked as he realized that he had the perfect thing to derail the conversation to somewhere slightly less painful.

“Yeah, ‘things’ as in a secret fling that crashed and burned,” he said quickly. “You know, you sounded like Snape just then,” Harry continued, trying to keep his tone casual as he redirected. He paused deliberately before adding, “I had a bit of a crush on the Half-Blood Prince too—I had one of Snape’s old potions textbooks but at the time I didn’t know it was his—I sort of fancied that I got to know the Prince through the spells he invented and all of the little brilliant, sarcastic comments he wrote in the margins. Guess I have a problem with catching feelings through books.” He forced a self-depreciating smile and dared to meet Voldemort’s eyes again.

Voldemort was giving him a slightly dubious yet curious look. After a moment he asked in a tone that was almost teasing, “Did you have a secret relationship with Severus as well?”

Harry made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh and said, “No… I don’t think anything would’ve ever happened there. He hated my guts—or, well, maybe he just pretended to, I’m not sure now. And he was in love with my mum, apparently.” Harry thought of the Pensieve memories he’d been given, and the memory-tears running down Snape’s face as he died while looking into Harry’s eyes. He swallowed and wondered why he’d thought talking about Snape would be less painful. “Maybe—maybe if he’d lived we could’ve at least been friends, or,” he cut himself off, not quite willing to voice his wish that Snape might’ve become something like a father figure to him, might have eventually grown to see Harry instead of James when he looked at him. “Anyway,” he said, very aware that Voldemort was still studying him, probably reading all of his conflicted emotions off of his face, “doesn’t much matter now, does it?”

Voldemort seemed to hesitate for a moment, then carefully said, “It’s pointless to torture yourself with what-if’s. Evidently none of us truly knew Severus behind the masks he wore—”

“And I’ll never get the chance to, thanks to you,” Harry snapped.

Voldemort blinked and went silent, watching Harry with suddenly tense shoulders and a hint of wariness in his eyes.

Harry immediately regretted his outburst. He sighed and rubbed one hand over his face and up through his messy hair. “Sorry. I’m not—” he sighed again, then bluntly said, “I hate it when you do that—I’m not going to hit you or curse you or whatever if I lose my temper. I’m not like that.”

Voldemort flicked a cautious glance from Harry’s face to his empty wand hand and back again, before saying, “The bond gives you my obedience, not my trust.”

Harry forced a smile, then said, “Guess I’ll just have to earn it, then.”

Voldemort blinked, seeming both surprised and suspicious, but he remained silent.

Harry cleared his throat, then decided a drastic change of both subject and location was in order. “You, er, mentioned wanting clothes?”

  
~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  
Voldemort was clothes-shopping with Harry Potter—it was so absurd that Voldemort would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been so thrilled and slightly overwhelmed by being out in public and moving around somewhat freely for the first time in ages. Both of them were wearing glamours, of course, and Voldemort had borrowed and resized a shirt, trousers, and robes that belonged to Harry to wear out. Harry’s glamours turned his hair red, his eyes blue, hid his scar, and made his skin tone paler. He’d also used a temporary vision charm to replace his rather recognizable glasses. Voldemort’s glamours covered up the runes on his neck most importantly, and also made his hair a dark blonde, his skin a golden tan, and his eyes an identical green to Harry’s true eye color. 

They’d gone to Madam Malkin’s, and Voldemort had held in a sneer as they’d walked in—he’d been accustomed to rather higher standards, but it would’ve been pressing his luck to comment. He didn’t want to risk annoying Harry into saying ‘forget it’ and taking him home without anything. So there he was, standing still and resisting the urge to swat away the floating enchanted measuring-tape when it got a little too enthusiastic about taking his inseam.

After the ordeal of the measurements was over, the seamstress brought out a catalogue and a few finished samples of robes, trousers, dress shirts, and underthings for him to choose from. He selected a reasonable amount of each for a new wardrobe, ordering three of each item off the rack to be resized, and ordering the rest of them bespoke to be owled to him when everything was finished. 

Then he decided to test Harry by continuing to add things to the order that he didn’t necessarily need—the highest quality socks in the store, for example, along with twenty additional pairs of underpants in varying colors, styles, and materials (Harry had blushed but said nothing), a silk dressing gown that he would probably never use, four pairs of shoes, nine more dress shirts, and five pairs of dress robes. The dress robes were what gave up the game—particularly since one of them was a sample the seamstress had brought out in a garish shade of violet that only Dumbledore would’ve dared to wear in public.

“Okay, seriously?” Harry had piped up as Voldemort added that robe to the pile.

“What?” he asked, projecting innocence.

“Are you ever actually going to wear that,” Harry asked, nodding towards the violet monstrosity, “or are you just wasting my money for a lark?”

The seamstress was looking back and forth between them with curiosity tinged with suspicion.

“Of course not,” Voldemort said, before adding in a teasing tone, “That one’s for you—the violet will really bring out your eyes.”

Harry snorted a laugh, then said, “I’ll pass. Put it back.”

Damn it. Voldemort immediately picked the robe back up and thrust it into the seamstress’ hands a bit too abruptly to seem natural, and the woman was now giving him a concerned look. Voldemort tightened his lips and shot a subtle glare at Harry before turning on the charm and telling the seamstress in an apologetic, conspiratorial tone, “Sorry, I’m just so eager to get home and model all of this for him—you know how it is,” he said, pitching his voice deliberately into camp territory and giving her a wink. “Just ring the rest of this up for us, and we’ll be on our way.”

“Oh, right,” she said, blushing slightly. “Of course.” She turned and busied herself with totaling and bagging the clothing, and Voldemort took the opportunity to glare openly at a blushing Harry while she wasn’t looking their way.

Harry grimaced and then silently mouthed ‘Sorry’ at him.

Voldemort rolled his eyes and turned back to the seamstress as she started talking.

“Now, once all of the bespoke items are finished, they’ll be owled to the address you provided. Here,” she said, handing Voldemort a shrunken package, “are all of your ready-made purchases. The total comes to 97 Galleons and 4 Sickles.”

Harry’s eyebrows went up, perhaps because that worked out to around 500 pounds, but he pulled a money pouch out of his pocket and started counting out Galleons. About halfway through, the seamstress suggested, “We can fill out a Gringotts withdrawal slip for the rest, if it would be more convenient.”

“No, no,” Harry said, looking slightly embarrassed, “I prefer to use coins.” His name, of course, would be required for the Gringotts withdrawal along with a drop of blood, and that would defeat the purpose of going out in glamours.

The seamstress smiled tightly, and eyed each of them a bit more suspiciously, impatiently waiting while Harry kept silently counting out Galleons.

Voldemort sighed and asked, “What number are you on?”

“Erm, 56. Why?”

Voldemort drew his wand, aimed it into the money bag, and said pointedly, “Accio 41 Galleons.” The Galleons zoomed out of the bag into the air, and Voldemort directed them onto the desk in neat stacks of tens next to the Sickles and messy piles of Galleons that Harry had already counted.

The seamstress beamed at him, handed him a receipt, and said, “Thank you both so much, have a great day,” in a tone that managed to be cheery and dismissive at the same time.

Voldemort put his hand on Harry’s upper back and steered him towards the door, more eager than he would ever admit to get back outside in the fresh air, even if it meant navigating through the bustling crowds on the street.

Harry immediately said, “I’m sorry about that—”

“Do shut up,” Voldemort interrupted, but without any real malice. “This is hardly the time or place to discuss it.” He forced a smile and then took off towards the bookstore, smoothly weaving through the flow of pedestrians and crossing the street without waiting for Harry

“Vol—shit, Tom!” Harry called after him, jogging to catch up to him and wearing a half-panicked expression as he fumbled his way through the crowd, muttering apologies as he knocked into multiple people.

When Harry finally caught up, Voldemort gave him an unrestrained grin and asked, “Did you seriously almost shout my name in a crowd?” He tsked in mock disappointment and playfully scolded, “For shame, that’s like yelling ‘fire’ in the movie theater.”

Harry rolled his eyes and said, “Oh shut—” he froze, stopping himself from completing what would’ve been an order, then he stammered, “I mean, erm.”

Voldemort raised both eyebrows and said, only half-sarcastically, “Nice catch. You’re learning. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

Harry glared at him and Voldemort just chuckled and looked away—he was in too good of a mood at the moment to throw a strop over the near miss or the harmless accidental order back in the shop. He felt Harry staring at him though, so he glanced back over to find the boy studying his expression. 

After a moment, Harry dared to ask, “You’re—you’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Voldemort schooled his expression into something casually impassive and said in a disinterested tone, “I wouldn’t say that. These errands are tedious, but the change of scenery somewhat makes up for it.” One of the very first life-lessons he’d learned as a child back at Wool’s Orphanage was to never let on that he genuinely liked something—if he did then the other children would ruin it out of cruelty and spite, or the matron would know to take it away as punishment when he displeased her. The same lesson had served him well at Hogwarts too, in those early years before he’d taken control of Slytherin House. It only made sense to use the same strategy with his new master.

“Huh,” Harry said pensively as the two of them continued down the pavement towards the bookstore. “You’re a really good liar—like, scary good.” 

Voldemort glanced over at Harry and raised an eyebrow, admitting nothing. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

Harry chuckled, tapped his scar and said, “Did you forget that I get flashes of your strong emotions sometimes?”

Voldemort blinked and felt a bolt of alarm and fury at the reminder that even his bloody emotions weren’t private—Harry Potter was once again in his head as well as fucking owning him, and the brat was probably seconds away from ordering him to never lie again. His mood darkened like a thunderstorm, and Harry’s expression changed in tandem into one of concern and surprise.

“Whoa,” Harry said, cautiously as if trying to convince a wild animal not to eat him, “what happened? What did I say?”

Voldemort took a deep breath to calm himself, then pulled up an Occlumency shield to block their connection and said tersely, “I asked for reasonable privacy. It should go without saying that that includes staying out of my head.”

Harry blinked, then said, “I didn’t do it on purpose—stuff just leaks through. You can just block me out if it bothers you.”

“I know I can, I just did,” Voldemort snapped. Then he took a subtle, deep breath and rearranged his expression into something neutral as the two of them arrived at the bookstore. Harry went silent but snuck a few brief, cautious glances at him. Voldemort let himself relax about the potential for an order to not lie—it seemed the moment had passed.

Harry arrived at the door first and held it open for Voldemort to enter first; the gesture rankled at him for some reason, but he still nodded politely at the boy as he passed. Although, he thought distractedly as he slipped away from Harry’s side and headed for the Ancient Rituals section, ‘boy’ was hardly an accurate descriptor of Harry Potter anymore, Voldemort simply used it out of habit. Harry was an adult in both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds now, and there were no remaining traces of childlike naiveté or innocence left in his eyes—or his body, for that matter. As he idly gazed at the spines of the books, Voldemort thought back to the previous night—to Harry’s thin but toned body and the way it had fit so well against his own, to the odd feeling of completeness he’d felt with their bodies joined, and to the strangely fulfilling and unexpectedly hot sensation of Harry coming inside of him.

The sound of someone clearing their throat next to him made Voldemort flinch slightly, and he immediately glared their way only to be faced with the very source of his distracting thoughts, who had caught up with him while he’d been staring blankly at the shelves. Voldemort immediately looked away again and hoped that he wasn’t doing anything as plebian as blushing.

“Where’d you go just now?” Harry asked, sounding amused but also slightly concerned as he studied Voldemort’s expression.

Voldemort resisted the urge to roll his eyes, then pointedly looked at the sign above the aisle and said sardonically, “It appears to be the Ancient Rituals section.”

Harry’s lips twitched into an amused smile, then he shrugged and asked, “Do you want company, or do you want me to piss off and leave you to it?”

“The latter,” Voldemort said. 

“All right,” Harry said quietly, though he looked slightly disappointed.

Voldemort glanced side to side to ensure they were still alone in the aisle, then he drew his wand and cast a harmless proximity alarm on Harry as the b—the young man turned to walk away.

Harry froze, then demanded, “What was that?”

“Keep your voice down,” Voldemort said before answering, “it’s just something to let you know if you start to wander too far away from me. I’d rather not be strangled because you underestimate how far fifty yards is.”

“Oh, all right then,” Harry said, the tension leaving his frame. “Good idea.”

“I’m full of them,” Voldemort deadpanned.

Harry gave him a forced-looking smile, then turned and walked away with both hands stuffed in his pockets.

  
~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Harry didn’t wander far—he walked two aisles over to the left and found himself in a section devoted to books on magical home repair and improvement. Idly, he picked a random book off the shelf and skimmed through it, wondering if anything here would be useful for fixing up Grimmauld Place a bit more. 

After a few moments he felt a bit of a tug through the proximity spell Voldemort had cast on him, and he absently took a few steps forward to follow its pull. It was as if something was pinging just at the edge of his awareness, so that he automatically adjusted to stay well within range. The home improvement book was interesting, but when it started describing the processes behind the spells, it got a little too complicated and technical for him to follow. He supposed he could ask Voldemort to explain it, but that might set off another row if Voldemort assumed Harry was going to put him to work fixing up the house. Probably best not to bother with it—the house wasn’t in that bad of a state, really, since the Order had cleaned it out and purged it of curses back in fifth year.

After fifteen or twenty more minutes of flipping through random books to stave off boredom, Harry felt the ping of the proximity spell moving towards him for a change, and he glanced up just as Voldemort came into view at the end of the aisle with a stack of books in his arms. Harry blinked, and Voldemort gave him a mildly impatient look and silently jerked his head towards the check-out counter before striding towards it and clearly expecting Harry to follow. Bloody Dark Lords, Harry thought, half-annoyed and half-amused. 

His smile slipped off his face when he arrived at the counter just in time to see the shopkeeper replenish the shelf of sold-out Daily Prophets with a fresh stack. Harry’s stomach sank at the headline—HARRY POTTER OUSTS CORRUPT AZKABAN WARDEN, REVEALS HORRIFIC ABUSE OF PRISONERS. Voldemort glanced at him, caught his expression, and followed his gaze to the stack of newspapers that featured a rare post-war picture of Harry next to a picture of the forbidding silhouette of Azkaban backlit by lightning during a thunderstorm. Voldemort’s expression smoothed into a mask of cool indifference, and he reached for one of the papers, placing it atop his stack of books on the check-out counter.

Harry blinked in disbelief and reached for the paper to put it back—he certainly hadn’t given any interviews about this, and he had no desire to read whatever made-up tripe or hearsay they’d published without his permission—but Voldemort firmly put his hand down on top of the paper, giving Harry a stern look. Harry sighed and let go of it, dropping his gaze and hoping for the sake of everything that the article didn’t mention Voldemort’s abuse in particular.

“Will this be all, gentlemen?” the shopkeeper asked after tallying up the cost of the books and newspaper.

Harry nodded, and Accio’d the money from his bag instead of counting out the individual coins like he’d done at Madam Malkin’s.

“He can be taught,” Voldemort said under his breath in mock-amazement, quietly enough that only Harry heard.

Harry side-eyed him and debated playfully elbowing him in the ribs before deciding that it probably wouldn’t go over too well. Instead he very maturely stuck out his tongue while the shopkeeper was bagging their purchases. The look on Voldemort’s face—caught somewhere between incredulity and affront—was entirely worth it. Harry held in a giggle and tried to keep a straight face as he took the bag of books from the shopkeeper, who was now giving him a slightly suspicious look. He took off for the door, with a slightly bemused Voldemort trailing behind him.

Once safely outside of the bookstore, Harry let out a laugh and spun around to grin at Voldemort. “Where to now?” he asked, as they started leisurely walking down the pavement.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow (and damn did he look weird as a blond) then said, “I rather think we should go home and find out what the papers are saying about us.”

Harry felt a twinge of something warm at hearing Voldemort call it ‘home’ and he simply shrugged and said, “Judging from past experience, it’ll be a tiny grain of truth surrounded by a bunch of speculation and rumors about me that they know will sell papers.”

Voldemort hummed in agreement. “The state of Wizarding journalism has fallen further and further into tabloid territory over recent years.”

“Do you think if I bought the Prophet I could make them shut up about me and do actual legitimate reporting?” Harry asked, only halfway kidding.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow but seemed to vaguely approve of the idea. “Only if you purchase it through a shell company or two—you’ll have to mask your involvement or it’ll look like you’re buying them to make them only print what you want them to. It still wouldn’t seem credible.”

“What if ‘Thomas Smith’ bought it?”

Voldemort blinked, then said in an odd, careful sort of tone, “That’s…a possibility, I suppose.”

Harry frowned. “But?”

“But, eventually it’ll be common knowledge that ‘Thomas Smith’ is closely connected to you, and it’ll still look like you’re trying to control the media through your associates.”

Harry sighed as if put-out, then said, “Fine, if you don’t want me to buy you a news company, I won’t buy you a news company.”

Voldemort rolled his eyes, then said curtly, “I have absolutely no desire to run a newspaper—I would just end up delegating it to someone else. But if you’re so set on the idea, buy Lovegood’s paper instead. It’s already been affiliated with you in the past—let the Prophet keep digging its own grave and set your paper up as an alternative.”

Harry looked curiously at him as they arrived at the Apparation point, then he said, “I don’t think I want to run a newspaper either.”

Voldemort caught his eye and asked again, “What do you want?”

Harry looked away and shrugged, and snapped, “I don’t know, all right? Is it not okay to just not know right now? I know you were already taking over the world or whatever at my age, but my whole bloody life has been about what other people wanted from me—so pardon me for not instantly having all the answers! Fuck,” he scoffed, running an agitated hand through his hair. 

A hand closed around Harry’s upper arm, tugging him forward. He tensed as he realized Voldemort was pulling him in for a hug, right in the middle of Diagon Alley. Voldemort pulled Harry against his chest, one hand in his hair guiding Harry’s head to rest in the crook of Voldemort’s neck and shoulder. All of the fight went out of Harry, and he asked, half-mortified and half-eager, “What are you doing?”

“You were making a scene. People are staring,” Voldemort hissed in his ear. “I’m comforting you,” he said, his derisive tone making it clear he was irritated about the show he was having to put on. “Take us home for Merlin’s sake.”

“Right, yeah,” Harry said, his chest feeling tight but also a bit warm because Voldemort had called it ‘home’ again. He hesitated for as long as he thought he could get away with, enjoying the embrace and the press of Voldemort’s body against his own, and the comfort of the arms around him regardless of their sincerity. “Sorry. Home it is.” 

Harry put his own arms around Voldemort, gathered his concentration and his magic, and Apparated the two of them back into the sitting room at Grimmauld Place—

—where Hermione was perched on the sofa waiting for him with a copy of the Daily Prophet, a roll of parchment, and a determined look on her face that never did bode well for Harry’s secrets.

  
~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...somewhat-evil cliffy, I know. But if I didn’t end it here, this chapter would probably take another month or so, so…
> 
> Comments give me life! I love hearing what you like, what you want to see, or even what isn’t particularly working for you. Con crit is always welcome. Suggestions too, although I make no promises to use every one—but if a request works with my vision, I’ll see what I can do ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit shorter than usual, but I felt bad about leaving everyone with that cliffhanger. Enjoy :) 

As Harry apparated the two of them back to Grimmauld Place, Voldemort felt a subtle security spell wash over both of them. When they crossed the house’s wards, it automatically removed their Glamours, and would presumably do the same to anyone who entered the house. The security spell was practical and proactive and an idea that he normally would’ve approved of if not for the fact that it had left the slave bond’s collar of runes on full display around his neck, and evidently he and Harry were not alone. 

The Granger girl was sitting on the sofa, apparently trying to ambush Harry. She’d stood up and opened her mouth to speak, but then paused when she noticed that he wasn’t alone.

Voldemort blinked, then casually lifted a hand from Harry’s shoulder to his own neck and wandlessly and nonverbally reapplied the Glamour over the rune collar as if it were inconsequential. He didn’t bother with his eyes—they were a dark enough red that they would pass for brown at a reasonable distance. Harry was still clinging to him in a tight embrace so Voldemort cleared his throat and started to pull away, only to have Harry’s arms around him tighten slightly. “Harry,” he warned, since Harry’s back was to the girl and he didn’t seem to have noticed her yet, “apparently we have company.”

Harry tensed and glanced over his shoulder without letting go of Voldemort. The tension only partially left his posture when he saw who their visitor was, and he said, “Oh, hey, Hermione.”

Granger’s eyebrows went up and she gave Harry a fondly exasperated look and said, “Hello, Harry. And..?” she trailed off, glancing expectantly at Voldemort.

Harry blushed slightly and said, “Oh, this is Tom. He’s, er, my new bodyguard.”

Granger quirked an eyebrow at Harry, clearly not believing him. “He seems very thorough,” she said dryly, with a pointed look at their embrace.

Harry quickly let go of Voldemort and took a step back, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “No,” he said awkwardly, catching the implication, “it’s not what you’re thinking—he really is my bodyguard. Kingsley introduced us.”

“Kingsley assigned him?” she asked curiously. Voldemort took a moment to appreciate the girl’s attention to detail and nuance—he had the fleeting thought that he was glad she wasn’t his master, because he would’ve had a much harder time working around the wording of any orders she would’ve given him.

“Er,” Harry said, glancing at Voldemort for help.

“Not exactly,” Voldemort said, smoothly stepping in. “It’s more of a freelance assignment.”

“So you don’t work for the Ministry?” Granger asked, her expression carefully neutral.

“I work for Harry.”

“Were you in the Order?” she asked bluntly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around before.”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow and answered, “You wouldn’t have. Until very recently, I worked as an Unspeakable.” The girl’s interrogation was getting annoying very quickly.

Granger looked impressed but still slightly suspicious. “Doing what?”

He gave her a tight smile and said, “I can’t tell you that—but I can tell you that my work there began before the first war, and I had very limited contact with other people during that time.” He paused, shifted his expression into something a bit lost-looking but still charming. “I find myself returning to a very changed world—Harry has been kind enough to fill me in on some of what I’ve missed, and to give me a place to live while I adjust.”

Granger studied him for a long, silent moment, then she said, “So your Unspeakable work began before the first war, and ended shortly after the second… Was it something to do with stopping Voldemort?” she asked bluntly. Gryffindors.

Voldemort blinked, then said in a cool but mostly neutral tone, “I’m not permitted to confirm or deny anything you ask about my work as an Unspeakable, Miss Granger.” He paused, and decided that allowing her to believe he was some kind of behind-the-scenes hero would definitely be preferable to her suspicion. “However,” he said, giving her a slightly warmer, pointed look, “I certainly can’t argue with Harry’s description of you as ‘the clever one’ of his group.” There. That was a vague enough hint towards her being correct that an actual Unspeakable could’ve managed to slip it out without being punished by their Secrecy Vow.

Granger blinked and then gave him another assessing look before finally giving him a polite smile and replying, “Thank you—for the compliment, and for agreeing to watch over Harry.”

Voldemort gave her a charming smile and said, “Of course.” He nodded towards the copy of the Prophet in her hands and asked, “I assume you’re here to ask about the Azkaban situation?”

Granger’s expression shifted into something simultaneously annoyed and concerned, and she glanced at Harry and answered, “Not originally—I just happened to see the paper before heading out. I was actually coming over because you’ve been ignoring my letters, Harry—”

“This one just got here this morning,” Harry protested.

Granger just talked over him, “—and you’ve been ignoring Professor McGonagall’s letters too,” she said, holding up the roll of parchment she’d brought. “She needs an answer on whether you’re going back.”

Harry sighed, and Voldemort gave him a curious look.

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided,” he answered, crossing his arms and looking down at the ground.

“Harry,” Granger said, exasperated, “you can’t just keep saying that. The deadline to respond is supposed to be August first. You’ve missed that by a week, and Professor McGonagall—I mean, Headmistress McGonagall—owled me instead to try to get an answer out of you. She’s worried about you—we all are.”

Harry sighed and took a seemingly unconscious step closer to Voldemort. “I don’t know if I want to go back yet.”

Granger looked at Harry for a moment, then said, “Andromeda Tonks has agreed to take the Muggle Studies position. She and Teddy will be living at the castle. You’d get to see your godson pretty much whenever you wanted.” Harry seemed to be wavering, and Granger added, “Ron and I are both going back—he wanted to jump right in to Auror training, but I managed to talk some sense into him.”

“I don’t know, Hermione,” Harry said, trailing off and rubbing his arm.

“Professor Slughorn retired again, if that’s any incentive,” Granger added. “You won’t have to put up with him—they’ve got someone new now, a Professor Markstone.”

“Anything like Snape?” Harry asked in tone that tried for ‘joking’ but ended up landing in ‘sad’ instead.

“I don’t know, I haven’t met them yet,” Granger answered delicately.

Harry swallowed, then asked, “What about Defense?” 

Granger gave him a tight, humorless smile and said, “Well, don’t spread this around, but she’s still scrambling to try to find someone. People still believe the position is cursed.”

Voldemort tamped down a wave of amusement and kept his face impassive.

“Do they?” Harry asked wryly, sneaking a side-glance over at Voldemort, who just looked back innocently. “Maybe Tom could take it.”

Voldemort quirked an eyebrow and asked teasingly, “A cursed job? Are you that eager to get rid of me?”

Harry smirked and said, “Shockingly, no.”

“Regardless,” Voldemort said, unsure how to feel about the honesty in Harry’s answer, “I doubt very much that the Headmistress would hire someone who can’t even explain their qualifications because of an Unspeakable’s Oath.”

“Oh, she’s desperate,” Granger said immediately. “If Harry vouched for you, she would probably hire you on the spot.”

Voldemort repressed a frown and said, “Be that as it may, my job is to ensure Harry’s safety, and I can hardly do that if I’m away from him teaching all day.” 

Harry shrugged and interjected, “I mean, I’d just have to go with you. To Hogwarts, I mean. It’s usually mostly safe there,” he added wryly. “I’d be all right by myself in classes.”

Voldemort raised a critical eyebrow at him and said pointedly, “And yet the consequences of any—incidents—that happened there would be much more severe, don’t you agree?” He couldn’t even imagine how humiliating it would be if Harry gave him another accidental order in front of a class or in the Great Hall. Not to mention that it could give away the slave bond and get Harry tossed in Azkaban for invoking Magical Conquest—if that went public, not even Shacklebolt’s interference would keep Harry out of prison, and Voldemort would be thrown back in right along with him.

Harry squinted at him like he realized that Voldemort was trying to say something more but didn’t quite understand what he meant. Voldemort sighed, caught Harry’s eyes, and then used Legilimency to project into Harry’s mind, ‘I’m referring to accidental orders, you imbecile. It would give away the slave bond and see us both thrown into Azkaban.’

“Oh,” Harry said out loud. “Well, I mean, I’ll just have to be extra careful, right?” Next to him, the Granger girl was giving him a slightly suspicious look as she glanced between Harry and himself.

Voldemort blinked and tried to ignore the Granger girl’s stares. “Five minutes ago you seemed entirely ambivalent about returning to Hogwarts, and now you’re trying to talk me into taking a job there.”

Harry glanced away briefly, then shrugged and said, “What else are we going to do? Sit around this house and drive each other mad?”

The brat had a point. “And if the Headmistress doesn’t hire me?” he asked.

“I’m pretty sure I can convince her to let you come with me as my bodyguard,” Harry said, although he didn’t sound entirely certain. “Or I’d just not go.”

“Harry,” Granger finally interjected with a guarded look between Voldemort and Harry. “Can I talk to you privately for a moment?”

Harry glanced warily at Voldemort, as if expecting him to blow up again if asked to leave. Voldemort let a tiny, amused smile slip onto his face, then he casually said, “I’ll just go make some tea, shall I?”

“Thank you,” Granger said cordially.

“Er, if you want,” Harry said carefully.

Voldemort nodded and headed towards the kitchen, considering whether or not he should eavesdrop.

The answer, of course, turned out to be ‘yes’ so as soon as he put the kettle on for tea, he Disillusioned himself and quietly walked back over to stand in the kitchen doorway and watch Harry and Granger—who were hugging now.

After a moment, they let go of each other and sat down close on the sofa. Voldemort raised an eyebrow, wondering at the closeness, the casual touches. Was Granger Harry’s girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend? Secret infatuation?

“How’s Ron doing?” Harry asked after a moment.

“Better,” Granger said, sounding a bit sad. “He’s still devastated about Fred—they all are, but I think he’s finally starting to process it.”

“Good,” Harry replied.

Granger nodded, then she let out a nervous laugh and said, “Don’t tell him, but I found a ring in his sock drawer. I’ve no idea when or how he bought it, but I think he’s going to propose.”

Harry broke into a smile and said, “Hermione! That’s brilliant—I mean, it is, isn’t it? Do you want to marry him?”

Granger bit her lip and nodded, visibly repressing a grin. “I mean, I kind of hope he waits until after we graduate, but if he asked me tomorrow I’d say yes.”

Harry grinned even wider and then hugged her again, and after they let go he took one of her hands and entwined their fingers. Voldemort’s brow furrowed—Harry was honestly happy for her with no trace of jealousy and he clearly didn’t want her romantically, but he was doing an awful lot of unnecessary touching and she was allowing it. As he watched, Granger gently nudged Harry until he sat back against the sofa in a more comfortable sprawl, and then she leaned against his side, tucking herself under his arm.

“So,” she said after a moment of comfortable silence (for those two at least—Voldemort was distinctly uncomfortable), “Tell me all about your new ‘bodyguard’,” she said, with audible quotation marks.

“Hermione,” Harry grumbled, “he really is just my bodyguard.”

“Oh, come on. You were flirting. You were hugging when you got here!”

Harry’s face went slightly red and he said, “We weren’t flirting! That was…banter. And we were just holding on to Apparate.”

Granger snorted. “Okay. Sure, Harry.” She went quiet for a moment, and Voldemort could pinpoint the moment Harry relaxed and assumed she was going to drop the subject. Evidently Granger also noticed that he’d let his guard down, because she took the opportunity to add, “You like him though, right? There’s tension.”

Harry full-on blushed, and shot a glance towards the kitchen before hissing, “Hermione! Don’t say that, he might hear you.”

Granger smirked and lowered her voice but said, “I don’t hear you denying it. You basically said you wouldn’t go back to Hogwarts if he didn’t take the Defense position—you’re doing that thing where you start rearranging all of your plans around whoever your crush is at the moment.”

“I am not! It’s just—complicated. And even if I did like him, it wouldn’t matter,” Harry said, looking as profoundly uncomfortable as Voldemort felt. “I’m his, er, employer—and it wouldn’t be right to try anything.”

Granger’s smirk faded, and she said, “Yes, of course. I was just teasing, Harry, I know you wouldn’t pressure anyone like that. But you should explain, about this, so he doesn’t get the wrong idea,” she said pointedly, running one hand through Harry’s hair in a way that had a strange stab of possessiveness and something like jealousy shooting through Voldemort. Harry blinked and suddenly looked towards the kitchen—damn it, the brat must’ve felt that through their connection. Granger obliviously kept talking, “I mean, you seemed rather reluctant to let go after you Apparated in—he seemed a bit uncomfortable.”

“Maybe you should explain,” Harry said, frowning slightly at the doorway where Voldemort was standing, still Disillusioned. “You’re the one who had to explain it to me in the first place and convince me I wasn’t just a clingy freak.”

“You’re not a freak,” Granger said automatically and sternly, as if this was something they’d been over a hundred times before. “But it’s not really my place to tell him about your childhood, Harry. You should talk to him yourself.” 

“He already knows,” Harry said.

Granger raised an eyebrow. “He knows about your childhood but not about the touch-starved thing?”

Harry shook his head and grumbled, “I hate that term. It makes it sound like I’m horny all the time or something.”

Granger rolled her eyes, “Just explain to him that it’s about comfort and trust, and that it’s not sexual—”

Harry let his head fall back against the back of the sofa and interrupted, “I will die of embarrassment if I try to say any of that to his face, Hermione, you have no idea.”

Granger sighed, “Harry, at some point you have to take charge of this—it’s important to be able to tell people what you need and what your boundaries are.”

Harry leaned over to let his head casually rest on top of Granger’s while she stayed tucked under his arm. Voldemort absolutely did not feel another stab of—something—at the sight of it. Harry’s expression seemed to flicker for a split second, then he sighed and asked Granger, “All right, how would you phrase it then? How should I say it?”

Granger’s brow furrowed and she asked, “You’ll actually talk to him, if I help you plan it out?”

“Of course,” Harry said. A lie, Voldemort immediately noted. Interesting.

“Well,” Granger said, still looking a bit suspicious, “you should start by saying that you respect him and enjoy his company and you don’t want to make him uncomfortable—assuming that that’s all true, of course,” she said, and Harry made a vague mm-hmm noise. “And then just keep it short and to the point—tell him you had a neglectful childhood and you never experienced any kind of positive or affectionate touch from your relatives, and so now you tend to overcompensate a bit sometimes when you’re comfortable around someone.”

Unseen, Voldemort quirked an eyebrow. It made a certain kind of sense, although Voldemort himself didn’t recall ever having any sort of positive touch or affection in his own childhood, and he’d never developed a craving for it. Although he couldn’t deny that whenever he and Harry touched it felt strangely fulfilling, he preferred to blame that on their Horcrux connection and leave it at that. But this new detail about Harry certainly explained a few things—why, for instance, he’d been so willing to cuddle the murderer of his parents after they’d consummated the bond. It was a whole new avenue Voldemort could exploit to gain Harry’s trust, and if it truly wasn’t sexual in nature, he wouldn’t have to worry quite so much about Harry taking liberties.

“Are you really going to tell him?” Granger asked.

“In those words exactly,” Harry said, with a flick of his eyes towards the doorway and an uncertain but still cheeky smile. Somehow, he seemed sure now that Voldemort was eavesdropping and that subsequently he wouldn’t have to tell him himself.

Voldemort huffed a silent laugh. Brat. 

The tea kettle went off, and Harry jumped slightly at the sound. Voldemort went back into the kitchen, undid the Disillusionment, and prepared a tea tray.

When he carried out the tea tray, he noted with amusement that Harry and Granger had scooted apart to a more respectable distance, although Granger gave Harry a pointed look, to which Harry rolled his eyes and mouthed ‘later’.

Voldemort set the tray down on the coffee table, then took a seat on the sofa opposite the one Granger and Harry occupied. Once they had all fixed their tea (Voldemort committed to memory that Harry took his with a splash of milk and a nauseating amount of sugar), Voldemort took a drink and then set his cup down, reaching for the newspaper on the coffee table. 

“May I?” he asked Granger. “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.” The copy he’d bought at the bookstore was still shrunken and in Harry’s robe pocket along with the rest of their purchases.

She nodded, then turned her attention to Harry and asked, “Why did you visit Azkaban, anyway? It doesn’t say.” 

Voldemort started reading the article, but he kept his attention split to also listen to Harry and Granger’s conversation.

“Erm, well, you know,” Harry said awkwardly, “just—closure, I guess.”

“Closure,” Granger repeated, only half a question.

Harry nodded and elaborated, “I needed to talk to Voldemort, just one last time.”

Granger’s eyebrows went up, then she blinked and asked, “And they let you? I thought he was supposed to be in maximum security—they don’t allow visitors.”

Harry gave her a forced-looking smile and said uncomfortably, “Yes, well, being the Savior of the Wizarding World has its perks, if you’re willing to throw your fame around a bit.”

Granger gave him a half-sympathetic, knowing look and asked, “You needed ‘closure’ that badly?”

Harry nodded, then took a sip of his tea and said tentatively, “And I got it—so you see, you can stop worrying about me quite so much. I’ve just had a lot on my mind, and talking to him helped. I promise I’ll stop being, what was it—withdrawn, preoccupied, and erratic?” he added, quoting Granger’s letter.

Granger cracked a smile but it didn’t quite reach her eyes and it faded quickly into a serious expression. “I hope you aren’t going to make a habit of visiting him—I don’t want him getting in your head again.”

Voldemort blinked at that, but he didn’t look up from skimming the article—thankfully he wasn’t specifically named anywhere in it. Evidently after being taken into custody, the warden had tried to bargain for lenience and immediately ratted out four of the guards for both physically and sexually abusing several other prisoners, who also remained unnamed. It made Voldemort’s stomach turn, but he was grateful to at least be spared the indignity of the entire world knowing about what Anderson had tried to do to him.

Harry laughed nervously, but brushed off Granger’s concern and said, “I won’t be going back. I don’t need to—I got what I wanted, and I managed to get a few abusive guards fired too.”

Granger studied Harry for a moment, then simply said, “Good.”

Voldemort finished reading the surprisingly lackluster article, then folded the paper and handed it across the table to Harry. 

“Well?” Harry asked, somewhat apprehensively. “How bad is it?”

“See for yourself,” Voldemort said. “It seems truthful, based on what you told me about the encounter. And there is a surprising lack of embellishment and hearsay, considering that this is the Daily Prophet.”

Harry took the paper, unfolded it, and started to read. 

Granger, meanwhile, caught Voldemort’s eye and asked, “You weren’t there with Harry?”

Harry tensed up, but Voldemort smoothly answered, “Minister Shacklebolt introduced us directly after the incident. He was concerned about possible retaliation from the guards and their families.”

Granger frowned. “How likely is that?”

“It’s a possibility that they’ll try something,” Voldemort said in a nonchalant tone, “but between Harry and I, they’re unlikely to succeed in causing any real damage.”

Granger frowned, took a sip of her tea, then said almost absently, “Constant vigilance.”

Harry finished reading the paper and tossed it back onto the coffee table, looking thoughtful with his brow slightly furrowed. Voldemort caught his eye and raised one questioning eyebrow. Harry subtly shook his head, and Voldemort took that to mean that Harry would ask or tell him whatever it was later. Voldemort nodded slightly to convey his understanding, then he casually took another drink of his tea.

“So,” Granger said after a moment of companionable silence, “Harry—what shall I tell Professor McGonagall? Are you going back to Hogwarts or not?”

Harry sighed, and then caught Voldemort’s eye and quirked an eyebrow in a silent question. Voldemort looked impassively back at him and gave him the slightest hint of a shrug, hoping that it adequately conveyed ‘obviously it’s up to you, brat’.

Harry didn’t seem to like that answer, but after a moment he looked at Granger instead, and said, “Ask her if she’ll consider Tom for the Defense position. If she won’t, then make it clear that if he can’t come with me as my bodyguard then I’m not coming back.”

Granger seemed hesitant. “Harry,” she started.

“No,” Harry interrupted. “You wanted an answer, that’s my answer.”

Granger sniffed and said, “You could write her back yourself, you know.”

Harry blinked up at her and said innocently, “But you’d word it so much better than I could.”

Granger rolled her eyes. “Just this once,” she said sternly but fondly.

Harry smiled and said sincerely, “Thanks, Hermione.”

Granger smiled back, then stood and said, “Well—I should be getting back. Ron and his family will worry if I’m not back in time for dinner.” She eyed Voldemort for a second, then said, “You’re both welcome to come along, if you want.”

It was the absolute last thing Voldemort wanted, and Harry seemed to sense that because he gave Granger an apologetic smile and said, “Er, I’m not really up to being around that many people right now. Sorry.” 

A lie, and a rather large one at that, judging from the regret and longing that was strong enough to leak through their mental bond—it suddenly clicked in Voldemort’s mind that despite the fame and despite the allies and the close friends he had, Harry Potter was a profoundly lonely person. And that was definitely something Voldemort could use.

Granger didn’t quite mange to hide her frown at Harry’s refusal, but she said, “That’s all right, Harry. Maybe next time?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry said. He stood up and pulled her into a hug.

“Take care of yourself, all right?” Granger said as she hugged him back. They pulled apart and then Granger turned to Voldemort and added, “And you take care of him too.”

Voldemort smiled while cursing her impudence in his thoughts, and mildly replied, “Of course.” He stood and offered his hand, which Granger shook. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Granger,” he said automatically, dredging up the old Tom Riddle charm.

“You as well,” she said, “and please, call me Hermione.”

“Then I insist you call me Tom.” Voldemort’s charming smile didn’t falter despite feeling like he might throw up in his mouth. Damn rules of etiquette. He missed the days when he could ignore etiquette completely and just curse anyone who annoyed him. Being ‘Thomas Smith’ was going to get tedious very quickly.

Harry must’ve sensed Voldemort’s growing annoyance, because he stepped in to slide one arm around Granger in another half-hug, steering her towards the fireplace while saying all of the requisite goodbyes and take cares and see you soons. Despite that, Harry was clearly reluctant to see her go.

Just before she stepped into the Floo, Granger winked at Harry and said nonsensically, “Have fun with Kevin, Whitney.” Then she disappeared in a whirl of green flames.

“Oh my god,” Harry muttered to the now-empty fireplace. He was blushing slightly when he turned back around to face Voldemort.

“What did she just call us?”

Harry laughed nervously and said, “It’s from a movie called The Bodyguard. Those are the main actors’ names.”

Voldemort very nearly gave in to the impulse to roll his eyes. “Is it a good movie, at least?”

Harry shrugged. “Rather cheesy, but it’s all right, I guess.” He paused and added, “it’s erm, a romance though.”

“Forget I asked,” Voldemort said, sitting back down on the sofa and leaning his head back to stare idly at the ceiling. He kept an eye on Harry in his peripheral vision, and it took the boy a moment of dithering before he finally walked over and sat down on Voldemort’s left.

“So, erm,” Harry said awkwardly with a blush coloring his face. “You _were_ actually eavesdropping, right? I wasn’t just imagining that?”

Voldemort glanced him and mildly replied, “Perhaps.” Then he casually lifted his left arm up to rest along the back of the sofa behind Harry. Even the smooth grace with which Voldemort infused the motion couldn’t save it from being one of the most obvious and recognizable moves in history.

Harry blinked, staring at the arm and then glancing back at Voldemort, who was facing forward and deliberately not meeting Harry’s curious eyes. In his peripheral vision, Voldemort watched Harry awkwardly open his mouth to speak several times only to change his mind every time. Finally he managed to stammer out, “Er, is that—I mean, are you—can I—erm—?”

“That’s as much of an invitation as you’re going to get,” Voldemort tersely interrupted.

“All right,” Harry said, scooting closer and cautiously tucking himself against Voldemort’s side. 

Voldemort wrapped his arm around Harry’s shoulders as the boy settled in. Their sides and legs were pressed together but despite the closeness, they both stared straight ahead somewhat stiffly and avoided looking at each other. Harry didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands—he started to place his right hand on Voldemort’s leg but then pulled back at the last minute and settled it in his own lap instead. 

After a long, silent, awkward moment, Harry roused up some Gryffindor courage and brought one hand up to first cover and then entwine fingers with Voldemort’s hand where it was perched on Harry’s shoulder. Voldemort tensed slightly but didn’t pull away.

“Is this all right, or too much?” Harry asked quietly, and both his words and their entwined fingers reminded Voldemort intensely of the consummation—the consideration Harry had shown towards Voldemort’s comfort, the way he’d been as insistent about respecting consent as one could be in their particular situation, the way he’d seemed a bit desperate to always be as close as physically possible.

Voldemort shoved the memories away, then cleared his throat and replied, “I’ve had your cock inside me—compared to that, holding hands is hardly an imposition.”

That startled a brief chuckle out of Harry, but then he cautiously said, “I thought we weren’t talking about that?”

“We aren’t.”

“Okay.”

There was an almost-comfortable silence this time, and Harry finally seemed to relax into Voldemort’s reluctant embrace. After a moment, that pleasant tingling feeling started to build between them in all the places they were touching. Voldemort blamed the sensation on the Horcrux mostly, but he’d started to notice that the proximity requirement of the slave bond was acting up a bit as well—not enough to really bother him, but if he kept his distance from Harry for more than a few hours, it started to get slightly uncomfortable, like a mild itch in the back of his mind. Sitting like this with Harry every so often would benefit Voldemort as well, helping him to gain Harry’s favor while making it look like he was simply being generous and accommodating—it was a win-win situation.

“I should still hate you,” Harry said, apropos nothing.

Voldemort blinked at the non-sequitur, then said mildly, “Yes, probably.”

“I mean, it’s weird that I don’t,” Harry said, sounding frustrated with himself. “Even when I was driving myself crazy trying to figure out a way to be your Horcrux again, I still hated you—for killing my parents, for going after me, for hurting my friends. And I hated you because despite all of that, I still couldn’t stand not being a part of you. But now—I don’t know how to explain it,” he said, trailing off with a frustrated sigh. “The resentment is still there underneath, but it’s like it’s…muted, or something, except for when we’re arguing or when you’re goading me on purpose.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Is it because of the Magical Conquest?”

Voldemort made a noncommittal humming noise, then considered whether he should share his hypothesis. After a moment he decided it wouldn’t hurt anything, and he replied, “I would imagine it’s because of the Horcrux.”

Harry tensed and asked, “What, like it’s controlling me?”

“No,” you idiot, he refrained from adding. “This one isn’t sentient. The only way it could possibly influence you is on a subconscious level—you might empathize with me more, or see parts of my past in your dreams. It’s a much larger fraction of my soul than you had before.”

“How much more?”

This, Voldemort considered lying about…but in the end, he honestly answered, “Half.”

“What?” Harry jerked up and turned to look Voldemort in the eyes, without managing to dislodge his arm from around him. “I have half of your soul?”

“That’s how it works,” Voldemort explained—not that he’d known that himself until after he’d already made too many to remain stable. It hadn’t been in any of the rare written accounts of Horcruxes that Voldemort had unearthed during his early research. “Creating a Horcrux splits away exactly half of the caster’s soul each time.”

Harry gaped at him, horrified, and stammered, “So—so before you fixed yourself, you only had, what?”

“Don’t hurt yourself doing the math,” Voldemort sniped. “Suffice it to say that the original accidental Horcrux in your scar contained more of my soul than I did by that point.” In response to Harry’s confused look, he clarified, “I didn’t make Nagini a Horcrux until after my resurrection.”

Harry just blinked at him in shock for another moment, then he repeated, “Half? Really?”

Voldemort gave him a flat look and said, “I don’t enjoy repeating myself.” He pointedly squeezed Harry’s left hand, which was still entwined with his own, and said, “Now settle down, unless you need to run off and have a meltdown over this.”

Harry huffed out a humorless laugh, then relaxed back into Voldemort’s side and said, “Nope, I’m fine right here. No meltdowns necessary.” Under his breath, he muttered, “Half…Merlin.”

There was another silence that was almost comfortable as the Horcrux bond subtly tingled between them, but of course Harry had to go and ruin it by speaking.

“Do you still hate me?” he asked, sounding strangely vulnerable.

Voldemort took a moment to consider his answer, then he said carefully, “I don’t think ‘hate’ was ever an accurate descriptor for how I felt about you… It’s far too simple a word.” He didn’t elaborate—he wasn’t actually sure that he could in a way that would make sense—and thankfully, Harry didn’t try to make him.

  
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

Harry was starting to question whether he’d finally actually lost his mind. Here he was, sitting on the sofa holding hands with Voldemort and fighting back a smile because his former archenemy had said he didn’t hate him. And he’d more or less made up his mind spur-of-the-moment to go back to Hogwarts only as long as Voldemort (Tom—he reminded himself—get used to calling him Tom) er, as long as Tom could go with him. What was that about?

Harry sighed, then after a few moments of Horcrux-tingly silence, he said, “Thanks for being nice to Hermione.”

Vold—er, Tom gave a noncommittal hum before saying, “It wouldn’t be wise or productive to alienate one of your best friends.”

“Still, thanks.” He paused, then asked, “Is it all right if I call you Tom? Like when we’re alone, I mean. Not just in front of people.”

Tom took longer than usual to answer, but he finally said, “I suppose you should. I’ve noticed that your elf tends to skulk around underfoot, and it wouldn’t do for you to use my chosen name in earshot of him. Or to shout it in another crowd,” he added, sounding amused at that last bit.

Harry huffed a laugh, and said, “Never going to let that go, are you?”

Tom shrugged, jostling Harry slightly, and said, “You entertain me occasionally.”

“Glad I’m good for something,” Harry said, half-sarcastically.

“Brat,” Tom murmured. He went silent for a moment, then asked, “What did you think of the news article?”

“Oh, right,” Harry said. “Don’t you think it’s weird that they didn’t mention you at all? I don’t just mean what happened with that guard—because I’m glad they didn’t mention that—but they didn’t even acknowledge you at all. Kingsley said he was going to tell people he’d moved you to some Ministry cell—you’d think that would be pretty big news too.” A twinge of annoyance and something like exasperation bled through their mental connection, and Harry immediately asked, “What?”

Tom sighed and said, “Harry, he’s not likely to tell the general public that—it would cause a panic. He probably only told the head Auror and whoever was chosen to replace the Azkaban warden. He’s going to have to do quite a lot of lying and Confunding to keep people from realizing that I’m not in Azkaban and not in a Ministry cell either.” 

“He told that guard he was moving you,” Harry chimed in as he remembered. “Right before we left your visiting room. And he had an Auror with him.”

“He probably made the Auror Obliviate the guard after we Apparated away, or perhaps he made them both swear a Vow of secrecy. Either way, I imagine as far as the world will ever know, I’m still locked in a cell in Azkaban indefinitely.”

“Well,” Harry said, shifting against Tom’s side, turning slightly more towards him for a more comfortable position, “that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Means nobody will suspect that you’re, well, you.”

Tom made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, then said sarcastically, “Your brilliance and eloquence never cease to astound me.”

“Rude,” Harry said. Then he yawned and absently rested his head on Tom’s shoulder.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me,” Tom warned.

“But you’re so comfy,” Harry protested through an unseen smile.

“I will dump you on the floor.”

“No you won’t. Can’t hurt me,” he said, then he winced as he realized that that might’ve come across as a taunt. He didn’t mean it that way at all though—the fact that Tom literally couldn’t harm him was the biggest reason he could actually feel comfortable in the man’s presence.

“I can still make things difficult for you in other ways if I choose to,” Tom replied in a deceptively mild tone. “Or I could just ignore you and refuse to help alleviate your touch starvation.”

“Eugh, I hate that term,” Harry grumbled. “And yeah, you could, but I really hope you won’t. I didn’t mean anything by that, it’s just—that’s why I can relax around you now. You’re the only person in the whole world who literally can’t hurt me.”

“And isn’t that just the height of irony?” Tom said under his breath.

“Yep,” Harry replied, even though he knew it was a rhetorical question. “But if you ask me, it’s definitely an improvement.”

“No one asked you,” Tom griped, but he made no move to either leave or push Harry away. Instead, he lifted his free hand and wandlessly charmed the Daily Prophet that Hermione had left behind so it would float in front of him and turn the pages whenever needed as he read the other articles.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Outside on the pavement, just clear of the wards and unnoticed by any of the passing Muggles, a figure in silvery-grey robes stood and silently stared between numbers 11 and 13 Grimmauld Place. 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another cliffy… OOPS I did it again ;)
> 
> Imagine my nerdy delight when I realized that “The Bodyguard” with Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner was released in 1992, meaning that I could reference it for that little joke without being anachronistic. Also I love how a lot of you assumed Hermione would figure it out right away, but no… not yet, fam ;) I’m enjoying tying Tom and Harry closer together in the center of this web of lies they’re telling everyone else to protect themselves.
> 
> Please share your thoughts on whether you want Tom and Harry to go to Hogwarts or not, and in what capacity (as in professor Tom or bodyguard Tom or something completely different). I have a trajectory loosely planned for their relationship (and for how/when certain other characters find out about Tom and/or about the slave bond) but a lot of things are still very much up in the air, and not set in stone. 
> 
> Comments & con-crit are encouraged and very much appreciated!


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